Hazard
by WatsonSword
Summary: An ancient text discovered on an distant island tells of a mythical musteline race from a land few have ever been to. Though none have seen one since that time, the legends continue to whet many appetites.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:** Before I get into anything else, there's just a few things I want to make clear here. For those of you who've followed my Lilo&Stitch and Digimon fics, only to find me in a more than a year long hiatus, this time I actually have a legitimate excuse. I can't continue my other fics! A year ago, my old hard drive broke down, which carried more than a hundred pages worth of notes for the fics I worked on then. I've been continuously broke for as long as I can remember, and so I can't afford to have the old hard drive recovered! Until I can, there's going to be no more Lilo&Stich or Digimon fics from me. In the meantime, I got into Redwall, and began writing a new fanfiction called Hazard, presented here.

**Special Thanks:** User Jade TeaLeaf was indispensable as a beta-reader for this fanfiction. Although I couldn't quite implement all of her suggestions, without her guidance this chapter wouldn't have been nearly as good-however good it is-.

* * *

Hazard

A Redwall Fanfiction

Written by

Dave Nevius a.k.a. WatsonSword

* * *

Disclaimer:

I hold no claim of ownership of Redwall or any related characters. I hold no claim to any form of monetary profit for this or any other Redwall related story I would write. This fanfiction is strictly to be provided to the general public unconditionally and for free.

* * *

Forward:

Fate has dealt these Redwallers an easy paw. For far too long they've gotten away with fighting halfwits and braggarts. They don't know what adversity really is. It's time someone taught them the true meaning of the phrase 'abject terror'. It's time someone taught them... of Red Hazard.

* * *

Rain beat down on Mossflower, flattening the grass and soaking the trails to mud. It was mid evening, so some light still shone through the blanket of clouds, staining the land an odd blue. A beast even odder than the ambiance ran through the forest, or at least tried to. He hopped forward through the waist-high grass on his right leg, dragging his left behind him, as its kneecap bled. He held a paw to his temple, as it too bled. He did not know where he was going, only that he had to keep running away, but away from what?

_Red Hazard!_

But what was Red Hazard? The odd beast knew only that it was something of horrific danger, and mind-boggling power, something he needed to run from. He cried beneath his wheezes, desperately trying to remember just what it was he was running from and why. No use. His delirium deepened until he no longer knew why he ran, and the words 'Red Hazard' became meaningless. By tomorrow's light, they would be forgotten entirely.

A single yurt of sap-treated linen, large enough to comfortably bed a platoon, stood in a small clearing in the woods. Oaks surrounded the clearing, and shrubs climbed nearly to the yurt's conical roof, which was lined messily with leaf-on oak sticks. That clearing was chosen specifically for its surrounding of tall shrubs and oaks whose branches would sprawl in all directions and obscure the yurt. Some other time the giant cylindrical tent might be visible, but in this rain it couldn't be seen even from a hundred paces. It was blind luck that the odd beast happened to run into it, though he may have been unlucky to run into this yurt as opposed to some other.

The odd beast was in a daze from blood loss. He showed neither hesitation nor curiosity upon seeing the yurt suddenly in front of him. His state of mind—and body—did not allow him such luxuries. He hobbled forward, wincing, shivering, coughing, wheezing, toward the shelter until he spotted the rounded-top doorway of sap bound reed, and the flap of linen covering the doorway, tied by twine to an adjacent bronze hook. The beast sniveled as he fumbled his free paw through the knot, trying desperately to untie it before realizing he could slide the knot, as is, off the hook. The flap of linen fell to the side, opening the doorway into total darkness. The beast, his knee still bleeding, hopped into the yurt. He sounded a cross between a huff and a squeak as he fell onto his haunches.

"Help me!" the odd beast cried.

His voice was bizarre. His accent was devoid of any form of style, or at least according to most beasts in Mossflower it was. But this made his words easier to understand through the sobs.

"What was that?" a voice shouted. More followed.

"Light the lamps!"

"Grab the weapons!"

"Tackle the intruder!"

Something slammed into the odd beast's chest; it knocked him over and knocked the wind out of him. Dozens of tiny paws grasped hold of his neck, arms, legs, and tail, all digging needle-like claws into his flesh that stopped just short of drawing blood. He felt the weight of three diminutive beasts on his chest and belly. He groaned in pain, wriggled his body, and pulled his arms and legs against the paws. Normally, even the lot of them would not be strong enough to hold him down, but he'd lost so much blood that he had not the strength to put up more than a paltry struggle. Another set of paws grabbed his bleeding knee.

"Somebody get the bloody ropes!"

"Somebody light the bloody lamps!"

"Somebody check out this bloody leg!"

"What?"

"His leg's bleeding!"

"How bad?

"Really bad!"

"His head's bleeding too!"

The tiny paws pulled the odd beast's legs together, and his arms up past his head. He felt some sort of scratchy twine binding his wrists and ankles. Soon as he felt himself being bound, the beast stopped struggling and began to sob, not because he lost the last of his strength, but because something deep within him, something he could not understand, urged him to surrender. The pace quickened, and soon he could hear paws tying the ends of the twine into knots. The odd beast submitted to the treatment. He heaved, sighed, and went limp. He was now their captive, whoever _they_ were.

The captive beast flicked an ear as he heard the scraping of flint and steel. A soft orange glow illuminated the inside of the yurt as several of the tiny beasts held up square lanterns. The captive finally saw his captors, and they him. He was a mustelid with many weasely features, though his stature far exceeded any weasel's. Though not quite as tall as an otter, for his height he was much stouter than one. He was almost uniformly dark chocolate, and his only marking was a tiny patch of cream colored fur on the underside of his muzzle. They, on the other paw, were beasts only a quarter his size, with charcoal gray fur, bronze bellies, and stretched snouts that hung down. They wore plain tunics, aprons, and baggy trousers, and most wore bandannas of different colors. They were shrews, though the odd mustelid did not recognize them.

The three shrews on the mustelid's chest all drew swords from their belt-sheathes and held them to his throat, thin swords shorter than rapiers but longer than main gauches. The mustelid's breath fluttered. He couldn't speak. He closed his eyes and swallowed. He did not want to see—whatever was happening.

"Who are you?" one shrew shouted.

"What are you doing barging into our home?" another growled.

The mustelid felt the tips of the swords press harder against his throat. He titled his head back, exposing his neck, almost as if offering his life to the shrews. He did not wonder why he did that. The behavior just seemed natural to him.

The shrews stopped shouting at the mustelid and began chattering amongst each other.

"What's that smell?"

"It's just like smoked lavender."

"Is he wearing perfume?"

"What kind of beast is he?"

"He looks like a half-breed."

"Yeah! A barren, perfume wearing half-breed!"

"But what kind?"

"He looks like a half-otter, half-weasel to me."

A hush descended on the shrews. Murmurs sounded through them shortly after, with several mentions of 'half-weasel' and 'vermin'. For reasons greater than his confusion, those words were meaningless to the odd mustelid. The shrews continued their bickering, now with a trace of fear in their voices.

"Well, what do we do with him?"

"If he's half vermin, there's no telling what he'll do."

"He marched into our territory and invaded our home! He's gotta' be up to no good. I say we kill him!"

"He called for help, and he's bleeding bad. I don't think he meant no offense."

"Let's help him!"

"I ain't helping no half-vermin who woke me up right after I just fell asleep."

"Yeah! I agree with Jemmy. Let's kill him!"

"If we help him, maybe we'll get a reward."

"A reward of what? He ain't got anything!"

"Let's just kill him and go back to sleep!"

"No, let's help him!"

"Log-a-log-a-log-a-log-a-log-a-log-a-log-a-log-a-log-a-looog!"

At once, the shouting stopped. The mustelid could then hear only the heavy breathing of the shrews. The three on his chest still pressed the tips of their swords into his throat, but in spite of this he dared to open one eye, and then the other. He saw a shrew standing above him, taller and stouter than the others. A round, polished black onyx at the end of a flax pendant dangled from his neck. The shrew pulled his short rapier from its wooden belt-sheath and held its tip to the mustelid's nose.

"I am Log-a-Log Garber," the shrew said. "Why've you scampered into our home?"

"I-I-I don't know!" the mustelid cried. "I was just running away and it-it was here and-and I just wanted someone to help me."

A shrew maiden in a dull red apron and white bandanna approached the mustelid with her paws on her hips. She licked her fore and middle fingers and ran them across the wound on the mustelid's knee. He gasped, winced, and squeezed his eyes shut in pain before she wiped her bloody fingers on her apron.

"That feels like a sword wound," she said.

Log-a-Log Garber nodded, stood up straight, and sheathed his sword. He turned to the other shrews and raised both paws. "Someone attacked this beast. Half vermin or not, he didn't come here wanting to be a threat, thief, or troublemaker. He just came here to get our help. But he is an intruder, and we can't know if he's treacherous or not. So I call the Guosim to meeting. That means no one can talk unless they have this!" Log-a-Log Garber took the onyx stone in his paw and pulled its pendant from his neck, snapping the simple knot at its rear. He turned back to the mustelid and waved his free paw. "Get off him," Log-a-Log Garber commanded.

The three shrews on the mustelid's chest stood up, sheathed their swords, and stood aside grumbling.

Log-a-Log Garber held the onyx above the mustelid's chest. "Is everything I said about you true?" he asked. He then dropped the onyx onto the mustelid.

"Yes!" the mustelid cried. "It's all true! I don't want to hurt anyone, steal anything, or cause any trouble! I just want someone to help me."

Log-a-Log Garber nodded, reached down, and swiped the onyx from the mustelid's chest. He stuffed the broken pendant into his trouser pocket and turned back toward the other shrews. "Then let's have a vote on the issue. All for killing the intruder?"

A great many shrews raised paws into the air and shouted their approval with a hardly synchronized, "Hoy!"

"All against?" Log-a-Log Garber shouted.

A great many more shrews raised paws into the air and shouted their condemnations with a hardly synchronized, "Nay!"

Log-a-Log Garber paused and blinked. For a short time he stood staring indecisive at the other shrews. Curiosity briefly seized the mustelid. He opened his eyes and looked up slightly, for the first time seeing the number of shrews occupying the yurt. There had to have been well over a hundred, many clutching their short rapiers. Others clutched bronze daggers or wooden clubs or quarterstaves, but more than half were simply startled and unarmed. There was no way Log-a-Log Garber could have tallied the votes of so many at once.

Log-a-Log Garber shook his head. "Never mind. How about this? All who want to help the beast on the left side, and all who want to kill him to the right."

With that there was a mad scrambling of shrews in all directions. Chattering of muzzles and pattering of footpaws soon blended into white noise. All shrews were sure they knew where they were going, but few actually got anywhere. It was inevitable. They began to quarrel over their destinations.

"Kill him!"

"What do you mean 'kill him'? You're on the left!"

"No, you're on the right!"

"The other left!"

"Whose other left?"

"I'm on the right!"

"No you're not. You're on the south end!"

"That's my right!"

"Left is west, right is east!"

"East is backwards!"

"According to who?"

"From the way we've got the yurt set up—"

"Shut the hell up right now!"

Again, the shouting stopped at once, and all shrews turned their gazes toward their Log-a-Log. They had pointed in all directions, and some were in the midst of struggles against other shrews, either bare pawed or with quarterstaves, and two had even puled their swords on each other. They froze in mid scramble and mid struggle. The picture nearly made Log-a-Log Garber laugh out loud, but he contained himself.

Log-a-Log Garber pointed to his own left. "All who want to help the beast, go over there," he shouted. He then pointed to his own right. "And all who want to kill him, go over there!"

The shrews stood still a few more seconds before numerous quieter conversations began and they relaxed. A short time later, the shrews started into a tad more orderly a shuffle toward opposite ends of the yurt, though the occasional mumble of accusation still sounded from a few of them. Log-a-Log Garber dropped his head into his paw and sighed. When he looked back up, his shrews had grouped together as he'd asked. Roughly a third of the shrews had bunched to the Log-a-Log's right, while the rest gathered to his left.

"Right then, we help him," Log-a-Log Garber commanded. "Cut the beast's binds. Dress those wounds. And somebody get him something to eat."

The shrews were on the move again, now in a far more orderly fashion than their previous efforts. A shrew approached the mustelid, drew a bronze dagger, and cut his binds. His limbs now free, he bent his knees up, brought his hands down to rub his raw wrists, but oddly made no attempt to stand. One shrew rummaged through a dusty old burlap bag, pulling out unwashed gray and green scarves while another unstrapped the leather buckles of a small reed chest to retrieve a terracotta pot full of grog, with a wax-fastened lid, from inside it. The two shrews approached and sat down by the mustelid. One used a dagger to unfasten the lid of the pot while the other haphazardly dunked balled up scarves into it, splashing grog onto the ground. The mustelid winced and squealed as the shrews wrapped the grog-soaked scarves tightly around his knee and head. A last shrew retrieved a large, ovoid object wrapped in gray linen from a reed hamper. She trotted to the mustelid and dangled the object by a corner of the linen, allowing it to unwrap itself and for the honey and pine-nut cake inside to fall out. The mustelid yelped in surprise as the cake struck his belly, but with nods of encouragement from the shrewmaid who brought it, he began eating.

The shrews were generally, and unusually, quiet as the mustelid ate. He closed his eyes and breathed deep as he gingerly held the shrew cake in both paws. His bleeding began to subside, but his wounds still ground into his mind. His vision was blurred and warped, and his ears heard sound as if he were underwater. His delirium was so great that he didn't have the sense to wonder why he was in such a state, and for the moment accepted it as normal. How did he come to be in this dwelling, surrounded by these stunted beasts? All he could remember was running in fear, but he couldn't remember why.

The mustelid ate the last bite of cake, larger than any other, and barely chewed before trying to swallow. The cake lodged itself in his throat and pained his chest. He gagged aloud until a shrew shoved the spout of a waterskin to his lips and poured a diluted ale into his muzzle. He swallowed eagerly and cleared the obstruction in his throat. He gasped as the shrew removed the spout.

Log-a-Log Garber sat cross-legged next to two other shrews, including the maid who felt the mustelid's wound. They conversed.

"He needs more help than we can give him," Log-a-Log Garber said.

The shrewmaid nodded. "Maybe we should point him toward Redwall."

The third shrew shook his head. "In the state he's in? He'll get lost in the rain and freeze to death. He needs a guide."

Log-a-Log Garber and the shrewmaid both smirked at the third shrew, who sighed and slumped his shoulders, regretting what he just said. "But as I'm the one who suggested it, I suppose it must be me."

The shrew stood up and turned toward the mustelid, who stared unfocused and blank-minded into space. He wrapped a paw around the intruder's arm and pulled at it, prompting the mustelid to stand.

"Come on," the shrew said. "There's a sandstone fortress not too far from here. I'll take you to it. They'll see you to health."

* * *

The mustelid nodded. He hobbled out of the yurt by the shrew's guiding paw, not noticing that the rain had worsened, nor that darkness was approaching, nor than he couldn't remember where the shrew said it was taking him. The shrew led him downhill to a riverbank lined with bulrush and fallen poplar, which they followed southward, upstream. The mustelid couldn't tell where he was, where he was being pulled to, or why. But he didn't resist. Again, something urged him to surrender to whatever guided him.

Plodding through the muddy riverbank, the squashing made by his feet, and the rushing and whooshing of the river and rain, all made the mustelid imagine he was walking through jam. He laughed at the thought. He soon convinced himself he _was_ walking through jam. He reached down to scoop up a finger of bank-mud, and swallowed it, too delirious to realize it tasted nothing like what he imagined it was. The shrew pulling him along looked forward, not noticing the event.

More than an hour passed. The rain became a deluge, drenching the mustelid and slipping the scarf off of his leg, which his shrew guide had to tie back on. His knee began to bleed once more, and this time the swath could not stop it. The poor creature was so cold and drained of blood he could not feel his legs or tail. In his state he merely assumed he had none, and imagined himself sliding along the ground like a snail.

A bolt of lightning lit up the sky, showing the shrew that he'd come out of the forest and into the grassland. He looked up in time to see the flash outline the familiar stone buildings and towers surrounded by a wall two stories high. He pulled the mustelid up the riverbank and across the field toward the abbey.

* * *

The rain sounded like the rattling of stones against the windows of Redwall Abbey's gatehouse. The inside was a cozy delight. Old stone floors, stacks of dusty old books long overdue for re-shelving—as they always were—, and a haggard old trestle table by the roaring fireplace cluttered with day old bread loaves, cheese slices, and half-drunk tankards of ale all coalesced with the sound of rain beating against the stained glass windows to form something so homey, but that neither of its residents could quite put their paws on.

The two middle-aged mice in their green habits propped their footpaws up on a round table and leaned their chairs back onto their rear legs. Recorder Zane, the mouse in square glasses, twitched his nose and rearranged the cards in his paws over and over again, a tell-tale sign he could neither control nor fathom that he'd been dealt a bad paw. Chuck, the mouse in round glasses, smirked and licked the front of his teeth.

"Let's make this the last deal, and the only one that counts too," Chuck said. "All other bets are washed up. Only this one's still good."

Recorder Zane looked up from his cards and began rearranging them a bit faster. Chuck squinted, grinned as wide as possible, and twitched the end of his tail, trying to make himself look as absurdly confident as possible. Zane may have been a genius at books, but he was a dunce among dunces when it came to reading people—and he didn't even know it.

The nervous mouse twitched his nose and cocked his head, staring deep into Chuck's eyes. He had to be bluffing! No beast at the card table could be that pleased with himself. No, he didn't have anything.

"What'cha have in mind?" Recorder Zane asked.

"How about this year's rations of October Ale, aye?" Chuck answered.

Recorder Zane twitched his nose more and rearranged his cards even faster. Now he knew Chuck was bluffing! A year's ration of October Ale? No beast in his right mind would ever make such a lavish bet in all seriousness, no matter how good their paw was. Zane didn't have much, but it was better than the nothing he was sure Chuck had. He looked down at his cards and back up at Chuck, who faked suppressing a fake chuckle. Yes, no one acted this absurd if they actually _had_ a good paw.

"How about it then?" Recorder Zane asked. "What'cha got?"

His adversary grinned even wider and tossed his cards onto the table. Recorder Zane's eyes widened and his ears drooped. Chuck's paw was over twice the value of his own. He grit his teeth, crushed his cards in his paw, and threw them into the air behind him. He'd never beaten Chuck at _Highest Paw_ before; he was a fool for thinking he could do so this time.

Chuck laughed aloud. "I'll be getting pissed every night passed Tap's Morn this year!"

Something struck the gatehouse door. The _wham_ startled both mice, making them fall over in their tipped back chairs. They both soon righted themselves and stood up, staring at the door and adjusting their glasses.

"What was that?" Recorder Zane asked.

"One way to find out," Chuck answered.

Chuck trotted to the door, slid open the iron bolt latch, and pushed the gate open. Chuck and Recorder Zane both gasped as they saw a tall, stout beast amble and sway into the gatehouse, and collapse onto his chest. The stranger's eyes rolled back into his skull, and his dried tongue stuck out the side of his muzzle. He was drenched and covered in mud, and his knee bled onto the gatehouse floor.

A shrew ran into the gatehouse shortly after and stomped his footpaws to shake the water lose from his fur. He struggled to pull the gate closed and then fell onto his haunches, heaving, with his back against it. The mice were too shocked to do anything but stare wide eyed and jaws agape.

"He needs Redwall's medical care," the shrew huffed. "He's lost so much blood he's completely daft."

"What is he?" Chuck asked.

The shrew shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. He looks like some sort of half-breed."

Recorder Zane turned to Chuck. "Go get Brother Bartley immediately. Tell him to prepare a gavage bag full of strawberry cordial, uh... the old stuff that's gone flat. He can't take anything fizzy in his condition. And salt too!"

"Aye!" Chuck answered.

Chuck ran to the opposite door, grabbed a felt hat from the nearby coat rack, and ran out into the abbey grounds with one paw on his head to keep the hat on.

* * *

The large wooden door to the infirmary rattled at first, and then slowly creaked open. A mouse pushed it open with his rear while holding the end of the oaken dowels of the jute stretcher that held the mustelid. It took two mice, two squirrels, a vole, and a hedgehog to haul the wounded beast all the way from the gatehouse to the infirmary. Their footpaws puttered over the dusty ash-wood floor while they carried the stretcher to a wrought iron and jute cot and laid him down. Even with the six beasts carrying the mustelid, they sat on their haunches and heaved in fatigue after setting him down on the cot.

"Clear out!" a voice shouted.

The tired beasts groaned and stood up, some rubbing their backs, and shuffled one by one out of the infirmary. A tall hedgehog with a stern square face and the white habit of medicine entered the infirmary's sickbay from the saloon door to his office, followed by his nurse, a gray bank vole in a similar white habit. The nurse carried in both arms a hefty waterskin with a spout longer than the bag itself.

"Give me the gavage bag," the hedgehog ordered.

"Yes Brother Bartley," the vole squeaked and lifted the long spouted waterskin up above his head

Brother Bartley grabbed the spout of the gavage bag and took in with one paw. "D'you have the salt Abe?"

"Yes Brother Bartley," the vole squeaked, and produced a small linen pouch full of salt from his habit pocket.

The healer swiped the pouch from nurse Abe's hand and pulled the string that tied the bag loose with his teeth, spilling some salt on the floor in the process. He fit the opening of the pouch into the gavage bag spout and poured the salt into the flattened strawberry cordial within.

"Hold his muzzle open," Brother Bartley ordered.

"Yes Brother Bartley," nurse Abe squeaked, and pried open the unconscious mustelid's jaw.

The hedgehog roughly shoved the long spout down the mustelid's throat and then upended it, pouring the salted, flat cordial straight into his patient's stomach until the gavage bag was empty, and then pulled it out. The mustelid gurgled a little of the salted cordial back up, but that was no concern to Brother Bartley.

"Get my dressings and medicine containers, and a cauldron of soapy water with a comb," Brother Bartley ordered.

"Yes Brother Bartley," nurse Abe squeaked, and ran off toward the infirmary pantry.

The main door to the infirmary opened again, this time more slowly. Abbess Audra entered. She was a stout little mouse, on occasion mistaken for a vole. Her arms were crossed and her paws hidden in the sleeves of her black habit. She wore thick glasses, and her muzzle had turned white with age. But she still walked smooth and erect like a youth. Her face was even sterner than Brother Bartley's.

"What kind of beast is this?" Abbess Audra asked.

Brother Bartley glanced at the abbess before looking back down and wrapping a paw around the mustelid's throat to feel his temperature and pulse. "A shrew brought him here, said he was a half-breed. Prob'ly of otter and weasel—that's what he said."

"How could such a union have come about?" Abbess Audra asked.

Brother Bartley shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not sure, and I'd rather not speculate."

The door to the infirmary pantry opened. Nurse Abe dragged a tiny wagon behind him, filled with wide rolls of linen bandages, bottles of various potions, mason jars filled with pastes and herbs of many colors, and the cauldron Bartley asked for. He brought more that wasn't asked for, but knew were needed: several ladles, a wooden bowel, and a large copper flask filled with whiskey distilled from the leftovers of last year's October Ale.

"Thank you Abe," Brother Bartley said.

Brother Bartley and Nurse Abe went back to work as Abbess Audra watched. Abe ladled hot soapy water onto the mustelid's legs while Bartley combed it away, washing the mud from his fur. They continued up the mustelid's belly, chest, neck, and finally finished washing the last bits of mud from the underside of the beast's muzzle. Bartley then took a jar of grainy black powder and dumped it into the wooden bowel where he poured the flask of whiskey into it and stirred the concoction by paw into a paste. Abe removed the makeshift bandages from the mustelid's leg and head, and the wounds began to bleed again. Bartley slathered the new paste over both of the mustelid's wounds, who cringed and grit his teeth in pain as he slept. Abe began to re-bandage the wounds with the abbey's clean linen.

"My god, who dressed those wounds last?" Brother Bartley asked no one in particular. "He had no idea what he was doing."

Nurse Abe finished redressing the mustelid's head-wound and began dressing the leg-wound. After a time, he fished that as well. "It's getting late Brother Bartley. May I check out?" nurse Abe asked.

Brother Bartley nodded. "Go right ahead."

Nurse Abe bowed slightly and trotted to the main infirmary door, where his little body had some trouble pushing it open. The door slid shut behind the nurse, creaking the whole way.

"What's that stuff you put on 'im?"

"Whiskey and tea grounds," Brother Bartley answered. "The tea grounds stop the bleeding while the whiskey prevents putrefying. Hmm?"

Brother Bartley blinked. That voice wasn't Abbess Audra's. He looked up to see a familiar, defiant young river otter maiden in her sleeveless gray tunic. She sat on another small stool across the cot and stared quizzically down at the odd mustelid. Sure enough, the bookshelf behind her had been pushed forward, revealing the cobblestone lined tunnel behind it that she crawled through to reach the sickbay.

"Wiomi!" Abbess Audra shouted. "What did I tell you about wandering willy nilly through the old tunnels?"

The ottermaid bared a fang on one side of her muzzle in a dismissive gesture. Beyond that, she ignored the abbess. She addressed Brother Bartley again. "What is he? Do you need any help?"

Brother Bartley shrugged his shoulders. Unlike Abbess Audra, he was unconcerned with strict obedience to rules and regulations. So long as they weren't getting in the way of his work, breaking anything, or making a general nuisance, Bartley didn't care who else was around. Wiomi knew this, and her second question was more to win his favor against Audra rather than of any actual desire to help.

"No Wiomi!" Abbess Audra shouted again. "You will go back to your dorm room right away. And you'll use the halls, not the tunnels."

"Actually, if you could keep watch over him as I get to my paperwork, that'd be dandy," Brother Bartley said.

Wiomi briefly looked up at Abbess Audra and grinned before returning her attention to the odd mustelid. Audra sighed and slumped her shoulders forward. Her control of the situation was lost. The infirmary keeper was the only Redwaller the abbess had no authority to command. Wiomi was only at the middle of adolescence, but already she knew exactly how to gain the approval of almost every major abbey leader from the infirmary keeper to the recorder to the cellarhog to the tower watchbeast. She was one of the few beasts at Redwall who was even more of a headache as a stripling than she was as a Dibbun. But Audra could still stay until she was satisfied with the circumstances, and she wasn't going to give up that last bit of power for anything.

"As for... our guest, I don't know what he is," Brother Bartley said. "The beast who brought him here thought he was a half-breed of weasel and otter, but I don't know."

"In other words, he could be dangerous," Abbess Audra said. "So I'll not allow you to be alone with him until more is learned of his nature."

Wiomi nodded, but didn't look up at Abbess Audra. Instead she blinked and cocked her head at the odd mustelid. The jute cot dripped soapy water onto the floor long after it should have stopped. Only the parts where the beast's body lay dripped. _Add two and two_, Wiomi thought. She ran her paw through the fur of the mustelid's neck and confirmed it: he was drenched in soapy water. More than that though, even wet the mustelid's fur was softer than the softest silk. What would it feel like when it was dry? Wiomi had difficulty removing her paw from that fur. She looked up at Brother Bartley.

Wiomi spoke aloud. "I don't think he's a half-breed."

Bartley turned back to the cot, nearly toppling over the jumble of scrolls and inkwells cluttering his roll-top desk. "What do you mean?"

"He's soaked to the bone in soapy water," Wiomi said. "He can't be half otter 'cause otter fur dries on its own. And he can't be half weasel 'cause weasel fur's s'pose to be all rough and scratchy. But this beast's got the softest fur I ever felt in me life."

Brother Bartley stood up from his desk chair and sat back down on the little stool next to the cot. He eyed the mustelid with a combination of curiosity and frustration. He ran a paw through the fur on the beast's arm, a paw that came back dripping soapy water. He dried his paw on his habit and then ran two fingers down either side of the beast's muzzle. He tugged at the his ear, and pulled up his lips exposing his teeth. He took the mustelid's paw in his own and pulled its fingers apart. Bartley stood up and looked to Abbes Audra.

"She's right," Brother Bartley said. "And his fur isn't the only thing. The shapes of his ears, muzzle, teeth and paws... I'm none good familiar with any of them."

"Meaning?" Abbess Audra asked.

"Meaning, I can't imagine any kind of half-breed that'd have his features," Brother Bartley answered. "I have to agree with Wiomi on this one. I don't think he's a half-breed at all."

"What is he then?" Abbess Audra asked.

Brother Bartley shrugged his shoulders. "I can't say. All I know for sure is, whatever beast he is, I don't think there's any in Mossflower who's ever seen one before."

As Brother Bartley and Abbess Audra conversed, Wiomi rested her muzzle in her damp paw and breathed deep. A curious scent hit the ottermaid's nostrils and made her squint. It came from her paw! She held it close her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled. It was a wonderful smell, like lavender, maple oil, and liquid smoke. It must have come from the odd mustelid. She knelt over and smelled his neck. Up close, the scent was strong enough to make the fur on the back of Wiomi's neck stand on end. Words distracted Wiomi. She looked back up.

"Then we know nothing of him, nothing at all," Abbess Audra told Brother Bartley. "Dry him. In the meantime I'll call a guard to watch the beast until we can conduct a proper interview with him." Audra turned toward Wiomi. "And I would like you to return to your dorm."

"Well, there's no else here." Wiomi said. "I can dry him off no problem aye. No sense makin' the healer do it all his-self."

"I'd appreciate it," Brother Bartley said.

Abbess Audra sighed and closed her eyes. Second attempt and she still couldn't control the stubborn child. But there was one way to regain that control. "Fine then! I expect the beast to be dry as bone by morning, and I'm still calling the guard to watch him. And by the way Wiomi, this is the last time I tolerate you jaunting through the old tunnels. That means you're on report."

That got Wiomi's attention. She threw her head up, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. "Report?" she shouted.

"That's right," Abbess Audra replied. "You probably won't get much more than a stern talking to this time. But next time I catch you in those tunnels, it will be much worse."

Before Wiomi could respond, Abbess Audra was out the door, which creaked shut behind her. Wiomi sat still, mouth open and paw raised as she was about to talk back to Audra, but it was too late now. Wiomi crossed her arms and grumbled. "I can't believe I'm gettin' on report just fer crawlin' through the tunnels."

"I suggest you do a real good job drying off our guest," Brother Bartley said. "If you don't, you might get more than just a stern talking to."

Wiomi stood up, stretched backwards, and yawned. She walked to a cupboard across from the roll-top desk and retrieved an armful of undyed wool towels. She brought them back to the cot and dropped them onto the floor. As she began to dry the unconscious beast, she stared off into space and unfocused her eyes. Her mind began to wander. Abbess Audra thought Wiomi could always get her own way, but she was wrong. Wiomi was smart enough to realize when she could or couldn't get her way. When she couldn't, she wouldn't even try. It was a long shot to think she could do so now, and report or no, she was amazed she'd been allowed to stay. Though she was willing to help in any way asked, that was not her intent. She'd come out of mere curiosity, but now wanted to stay because she wanted more of that amazing smell that wafted from the mysterious mustelid.

The main infirmary door opened and creaked shut. A yellow-necked mouse walking with a quarterstaff tipped with iron bands entered the sickbay and sat down in a wooden rocking chair next to the door. He would eventually fall asleep in that chair. Brother Bartley still sat at the roll-top desk and worked by candlelight, drawing an anatomical representation of the odd mustelid and highlighting his wounds. After an hour or so, Wiomi finished drying the odd mustelid and folded the towels into a pile on the cot. She folded her arms on the towels an lay her head in them. That wonderful smell permeated the towels. With that, and the sound of the pouring rain outside, Wiomi soon fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author Notes:** Jade TeaLeaf complained about how long this chapter was, and I had to agree with her. I remember back when I thought 7,000 words was an accomplishment. Now I'm writing chapters so long that I have to trim 700 words from the rough draft and it's still way too long! Though I wasn't able to get this chapter as short as I'd have liked, this was still a great exercise, and education, in editing. Now I won't make any promises, but I'm going to try really hard to make sure chapter three will be shorter.

I also have to thank Jade TeaLeaf for her suggestions on how to make my mystery character seem slightly less sue-ish. In the end I promise he won't be a sue... err... or at the very least not an eye-burning, brain-rotting sue. But then again, first impressions are everything in storytelling.

**Story Notes:** I'm taking a creative liberty in assuming the Redwall world has a similar geography to ours, and that Mossflower is literally the Redwall world's England. Given that information, many of you may very quickly figure out where my mystery character is from after only the second scene. If you do, please don't point it out in your review and ruin it for those who didn't.

* * *

The rain cleared some time in the night, and the scent of wet grass and leaves wafted through the air and into the halls of Redwall Abbey. Many inhabitants of the fortress, even Dibbuns, occasionally stopped in the midst of their morning routines to smell the air. Brother Bartley had opened all the windows in the infirmary that could be opened. His workplace filled with the smell.

The hedgehog Infirmary Keeper sat at his roll-top desk, adding his finishing touches to two sheets of parchment: one detailing the anatomy, injuries, and treatments of his new patient, and the other being a written version of those accounts. His eyes were saggy and bloodshot from working through the night. A few more strokes of ink and Bartley was finished. He placed the lid back on the clay inkwell and stuck the quill pen through the hole at its top. He pushed his seat back and, as usual, left his work to clutter the desk.

The chair scraped against the floor and made an ear flicker. The wounded beast twitched his whiskers. The tip of his tail fidgeted and his eyelids fluttered. A beam of light filtered through the trees outside and struck the mustelid's face. He squeezed his eyelids tight and wriggled his fingers. He at last yawned and sat up.

The odd mustelid's throat was parched. He smacked his jowls, licked his muzzle, and opened his eyes. He knew he wasn't in good shape. His muscles ached, his head throbbed, and his eyes had difficulty adjusting to the light. All around him was a blur from the glare of morning sun, which normally wouldn't bother him. But how did he know that? He brought a paw to his head and found it was bandaged. But why? _You shouldn't tamper with it_, his instincts told him.

The mustelid was unaware of the hedgehog watching him silently from across the room. He squinted and blinked for some time until his vision began to clear. He waggled his eyeballs back and fourth across the sights around him, trying to get some impression of where he was. There were wooden shelves and cupboards filled with bolts of white cloth, metal and wooden instruments he couldn't identify, mason jars full of unknown substances, and dusty notebooks. He recognized nothing. The beast felt breathing against his footpaw and looked down. An ottermaid slept on the stool beside the cot with her head in her arms, in turn on a stack on towels. At last, something familiar!

The mustelid smiled the sweetest, warmest smile, knelt over, and rubbed his cheek against hers. Wiomi groaned and lifted her eyelids, and saw another pair of eyes right next to hers. The familiar scent of lavender, maple oil, and smoke wafted through her nostrils. For a moment, Wiomi laid still and confused. Then she realized what was happening.

"Aiiieee!" Wiomi shrieked and leaped back. She fell over her stool and cringed in pain as she landed on her shoulders. She sat back up and rubbed her temple.

"Yaaugh!" the mustelid screamed in response. He too leaped back and fell over the edge of the cot onto the floor. The impact sent him into a brief coughing fit.

The ruckus woke the mouse guard, who ran to the mustelid and held the tip of his quarterstaff to the the beast's muzzle. "What did you do? Speak now or I swear I'll—"

A paw grasped the quarterstaff and gently pushed it away. "There's no need for that."

Brother Bartley waved his paw to the mouse guard, who stepped back. The hedgehog took his patient's arm, helped him stand, and sat him back down on the cot. The mustelid's breath fluttered in fear, and he looked down in submission. Bartley rested a paw on his patient's shoulder.

"You are a guest at Redwall Abbey," the hedgehog explained. "You'll be given food, medicine, and clothing. No beast is going to hurt you here, and you don't have to stare at the floor. My name is Bartley."

The mustelid's jaw quivered. He swallowed despite his muzzle being dry. Slowly and tentatively, he looked up at Brother Bartley. His eyes were wide and glassy. He was either pleading or apologizing, Bartley wasn't sure which.

"You seem to be a bit smitten with Wiomi," Brother Bartley said, nodding toward the ottermaid, who by then had sat back up on her stool.

The mustelid turned toward the ottermaid, who looked at him with a raised eyebrow, and back to the hedgehog. He shook his head. "I was just curious was all."

"Curious?" Wiomi growled.

"Well... isn't that how you greet a lady?" the mustelid asked.

"No!" Wiomi shouted, and swatted the injured beast's shoulder with the back of her paw. "You ask my name is what you do!"

Soon as Wiomi struck him, the mustelid scuttled toward the end of the cot, bent his knees to his chest, and hugged his legs. He would not look Wiomi in the eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Brother Bartley adjusted his glasses and stared quizzically at his patient. The mustelid would greet a stranger with such an intimate display of affection, and cower at the slightest hint of hostility. _Why?_ Bartley was unable to complete the thought.

"Come with me," the mouse guard said. "Abbess Audra wants to see you."

"Who?" the mustelid asked.

"Just come with me."

The mouse guard extended a paw to the mustelid, who scooted away and brought his arms to his chest. The mouse guard sighed. He took a step toward the mustelid and extended his paw further.

"I promise I won't hurt you, but we have to know more about you if we're to let you stay here more than a few days. How about we get you something to eat at the kitchen while we talk?"

The mustelid hesitated. He looked back and forth between the mouse's paw and face. The mouse smiled warmly with upturned eyes, showing compassion. He groaned under his breath. He wanted to stay with Bartley. _Do as you're told_, his instincts commanded. He took the mouse's paw in his own and stood. The mouse walked slow to accommodate Redwall's newest guest, who still limped on his left leg.

_At the kitchen_—Wiomi mouthed the words to herself. She looked to Brother Bartley, who yawned and stretched his arms back, popping his sternum.

"I need sleep," the hedgehog mumbled.

* * *

In spite of the occasion, the Redwall kitchen was not idle. Abbess Audra gave the friar and his assistants until noon to nap and prepare for the day's work. Few beasts were in the kitchen this morning, so the mouse guard's promise was viable. This however, meant the friar had to work early.

The brown friar's habit covered a tall, lanky beast—or at least tall for a shrew. His gold-dyed bandanna pushed his ears against his cheeks. The shrew friar stood in front of the rectangular stone firepit a few paces from the hearth. A cast-iron pan rested on a neat pile of coals within. With a wooden spoon, he stirred its contents with blinding speed while his free paw rummaged by touch through the shelf above. He added ingredients from the shelf too quickly to register what any of them were. The pan sizzled and steamed. The shrew took a towel in paw from his belt, lifted the pan, and poured the black sauce within over a massive, steaming dumpling in a bowl on the rim of the firepit. He brought the bowl to a polished trestle table at the other end of the kitchen and dropped it in front of the mustelid.

"Skilly 'n' Duff, best breakfast ever invented," the shrew friar said. "And no complaining! This is s'posed to be my nap time."

The friar walked away and haphazardly chucked the pan and towel into the cauldron of hot water over the hearth. Water splashed over the sides, sizzling and smoking as it dripped into the embers below. The shrew wiped his paws on his habit and left the kitchen.

"Now where's that damned bloody rabbit?" he mumbled

The mustelid took his fork in paw and horked down bite after bite of the meal in front of him. He spoke with his muzzle still full of breakfast and crumbs falling from his snout. "Thish shtuffs grea'! How ju you ma'e it?"

Abbess Audra groaned and dropped her head into her paw. She nearly reached over the table to smack the bowl onto the floor before the mouse guard with the quarterstaff put a paw on her shoulder and shook his head at her. She breathed deep to regain her composure.

"We've been here twenty minutes and you haven't answered a single question I've asked you," Abbess Audra fussed.

The mustelid dropped his fork and wriggled his fingertips as he swallowed his last bite. He chugged and gurgled his clay tankard of water. Abbess Audra cringed at the sounds. He sighed as he set the tankard down and wiped his muzzle with the back of a paw. "Ask me something."

"Very well. What is your name?"

Her guest's attention had already turned by the time Abbess Audra finished her question. The mustelid looked up and waved a paw back and forth. "The ceiling's so pretty! What is it, terracotta?"

"Sandstone," Abbess Audra grumbled "Now would you please tell me your name?"

"Hey! Where did that long snouted fella go? I want to ask him how to make this stuff."

The mustelid continued to babble, changing subjects twice every minute. He had the widest smile and eyes alight like a Dibbun's. Audra dug her claws into the wood of the table. The mouse guard noticed her tension and whispered in her ear.

"Have you ever heard an accent like that before?"

The distraction gave Abbess Audra the chance to close her eyes and force herself to calm. She was grateful; a moment more and she might have lost her temper. She turned to the guard.

"It's unlike any I've ever heard, nor does it sound derivative of any," Abbess Audra whispered back. "It's bizarre. It seems stark... flat, almost sing-song."

"Hey, do you have any palms here?" the beast asked.

"What is a, palm?" Abbess Audra asked back.

The mustlelid's eyes widened in disappointment. "No? Oh that's too bad, because this sauce would go great over roasted palm."

"That's enough!" Abbess Audra shouted.

The Abbess stood up and swiped the bowl from her guest's paws. The mustelid gasped in reaction, covered his snout in his arms protectively, and looked down. He at last fell silent.

"Much better." Abbess Audra sighed.

"I'm sorry," the mustelid whispered. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Never you mind that. I will give you back your breakfast once you answer my questions."

The mustelid nodded.

"That's better. Now tell me, what is your name."

"Oh that's easy it's... it's... it's...huh."

The beast blinked and squinted. He lowered his arms and looked up deep in thought. He eventually began to furrow his brow and bite his lower lip. He had never even thought of his name until that point. Now that it was at hand, all he could find was frustration.

"My name," he whispered. "My name is... my name is... I don't think I have a name."

Abbess Audra and her guard briefly looked at each other with furrowed brows.

"Well then, at least tell me your race." Abbess Audra asked.

"My race? Well that's... uh... I'm not sure."

"Do you know what land you hail from?"

"I... think it was a big peninsula. It was a lot warmer than this place, and the trees were somehow... different. I lived in a woven house on stilts in the sand, or at least I remember seeing one. But I'm pretty sure this is the first stone building I've ever seen. That's about it."

"Do you remember anything at all about yourself or your past?"

"... No. I don't remember anything about that. Isn't that something?" The mustelid added a chuckle to his last sentence

All beasts were still and silent. The moment didn't seem real. Abbess Audra and her guard stared into the eyes of the amnesiac beast. He stared back. All were at a loss for words. From his expression, the mustelid didn't seem at all alarmed by the news, much unlike the mice. His eyes moved toward the bowl Audra held. The abbess looked at the bowl and set it back down in front of her guest. He ate slowly.

"Why's my memory full of holes?" the mustelid whispered to no beast in particular.

"You were near death when you first arrived here," Abbess Audra said.

The mustelid looked back up and cocked his head at her. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the sound of scraping stone. He turned around to see something pushing a large block of sandstone out of its fitting in the wall. Two paws grasped the top of the stone block and lifted a familiar face into sight. The mustelid's ears perked and he leaped up in excitement.

"It's you!" he hollered in excitement.

Abbess Audra stood. "Dammit Wiomi! What did I just tell you yesterday about prancing through those tunnels?"

"Well I just... wait, what? What're you doin' here?" Wiomi yelped. "I though you were gonna' be at Cavern Hole waitin' for him!"

Abbess Audra walked around the table and approached Wiomi. She stuck a disciplinary finger in the ottermaid's face.

"You thought wrong. And by the way Wiomi, you'll be scrubbing the kitchen floors unassisted after the feast. I expect them to be spotless by morning. Penalty has been dealt. Your report is adjourned."

Wiomi threw her arms out. "What? Scrub the floors? I'm the beast who found the ol' tunnels in the first place. Why can't I be the one to scout 'em out?"

"Because it's dangerous and you use them to intrude on other beasts' private matters!" Abbess Audra shouted. "And I still have questions I want to ask of our guest."

Wiomi bit her bottom lip, stepped back, and crossed her arms. Everybeast knew these interviews were normally given at Cavern Hole. Wiomi didn't consider that Abbess Audra might be so brusque as to question the new arrival as he ate breakfast. But she didn't want to get into more trouble, so she stood aside and stopped arguing.

Abbess Audra approached and put her paw on her guest's shoulder. "Do you recognize anybeast around you? Our races that is. Do you know what we are?"

The mustelid eyed the Abbess and chewed his tongue softly. "You look like a mouse, except your ears are smaller, and they're not floppy like a mouse's."

"What about me?" Wiomi asked.

The mustelid turned to Wiomi and stared at her for a time. He licked his forefinger and tapped his temple "Well, you look like a river otter, except your neck is shorter, your tail is longer, and your head isn't as pointy. And that cook and Bartley? I don't know what they are."

Wiomi covered her snout in with a paw. Abbess Audra and her guard looked at each other each with one brow raised. Where was it that mice had big floppy ears and otters had such odd proportions? There was no place in Mossflower, nor in the charted east continent, where such creatures lived.

"Bartley didn't know how right he was," Wiomi whispered. "This bloke's from way outside of Mossflower. I don't think he's from anywhere in known maps even."

Abbess Audra removed her paw from the mustelid's shoulder and stepped away. She held her paw to her muzzle and pondered, but was distracted. She furrowed her brow and smelled her paw. The amnesiac beast left a delectable scent on it that made whiskers tingle and lungs lighten. The Abbess helplessly inhaled the scent as her muzzle watered and her eyes glazed over. Wiomi turned her head to hide the smirk on the side of her muzzle.

Abbess Audra turned back toward her guest. "What is that scent of yours?" she whispered.

The mustelid shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not sure. I just seems... normal to me."

Abbess Audra huffed, shook her head, and adjusted her glasses. "Well, my questions led nowhere. But from his observations, Brother Bartley suggested that you are not a danger, so I must give you asylum at Redwall. I hereby release you from escort. You are now free to roam the abbey as you please."

Abbess Audra nodded at her guard and they both turned to exit the kitchen. The Abbess paused however, as the mysterious mustelid talked with Wiomi.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

Wiomi snorted and put her paws on her hips. "I'm here to find out where you get the notion that it's okay to just rub up 'gainst beasts you never met!"

The mustelid flattened his ears against his head, looked down, and twiddled his fingers. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Wiomi shook her head. "You keep sayin' that."

The mustelid looked back up at Wiomi and surprised her with his expression. His ears still pressed against his head, with his snout down, eyes up, and paws clasped behind his back. He seemed to beg the same way a Dibbun would. "I couldn't help it. You're just so beautiful."

Wiomi raised a brow at the comment. It was cute—adorable even, but so were Dibbun faces moments before they pelted you with something sticky. More than anything it was unexpected, and for a moment the ottermaid was at a loss for words.

"I thought you were just curious," Wiomi said.

"I was," The mustelid responded.

"Then it's no more than flattery," Abbess Audra spoke across the kitchen.

"There ain't nothing wrong with flattery!" Wiomi snapped back at the Abbess. She turned to the mustelid. "How much more've you got?"

"Well, I wanted to tell you how beautiful you are, just to explain myself. I have to admit that I... don't know much about manners here in Redwall, but I didn't think it would be an offense to touch such a hypnotic face, especially one that smiles when it sleeps."

Wiomi crossed her arms and giggled in amusement. Abbess Audra rolled her eyes and finally left the kitchen. The mustelid continued his flattery.

"And I guess that I just want to know as much as I can about you since I don't know much about myself."

Wiomi smirked and nodded her head. "Yeah, you're pretty smooth ain't you matey? Wait. What?"

"Oh! I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you. My memory seems to be full of holes. I don't even know my own name. Isn't that the funniest thing?"

Wiomi slowly uncrossed her arms and let them fall to her sides. Her muzzle hung open and she squinted. She shook her head and began pacing. She paused at the end of each pace, holding a different pose each time: paws on hips, arms crossed, one paw on her chin, scratching the back of her head, and others. More than once she turned to talk to the mustelid, only to find she had nothing to say. The amnesiac beast stared at her in confusion, unable to fathom why she would have such a reaction to his news, something he found little more than humorous.

Wiomi stopped, looked down, and tapped her footpaw. She wanted to say something profound, but nothing could be said except the banal. She had to say something. "Well you can't just be goin' round Redwall with not a name."

"What name do you think I should have?"

"How 'bout Spice? Hmm?"

The mustelid cocked his head. "Do you like Spice?"

"Well, that's not the point," Wiomi answered. "The point is do you like it?"

"Do you?"

"Well... yeah, I like it."

The mustelid smiled and nodded vigorously. "Then I like it!"

Wiomi bit her lower lip and stared at the beast, or rather at _Spice_ as he was now known. She couldn't tell if he knew that she'd named him after his fragrance. That wasn't as important as why he accepted that name based solely on her preference, as if he had none of his own. Was he lying earlier? Was he really smitten with her? Or would he be so passive to anybeast? Spice still smiled at Wiomi, his face filled with generosity and childish anticipation. He seemed incapable of expressing anything else. That smile hastened Wiomi's breath.

The main kitchen door opened and Sakhaline the stripling badgermaid ambled in. She ducked to avoid hitting her head on arched doorway. Though fully grown, she was still a youth. Her white habit with black belt signaled she was a student of medicine, likely aspiring to become Redwall's next Abbey Mother.

"Hi Sakhaline," Wiomi mumbled.

Sakhaline nodded back. "Pogo wanted me to help with the feast."

Spice noticed nothing of Sakhaline, save her race. He backed himself against the far wall and looked down. Wiomi looked back and forth in confusion between Spice and Sakhaline. The badgermaid approached the shelves by the hearth and reached up to fling a sack of flour over her shoulder. She walked to the door but stopped to look at Spice, who turned his head further away from her.

"What's with him?" Sakhaline asked.

Wiomi shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know."

Sakhaline snorted before turning back to the door. She yelped as she hit her head against its arched top. She rubbed her forehead with her free paw and then ducked once again to leave the kitchen.

The kitchen door shut. Spice sighed in relief and slid down the wall onto his haunches. Wiomi trotted to Spice and sat down next to him. Spice flinched as Wiomi shook his shoulder.

"That's just Sakhaline," Wiomi said. "She's not gonna hurt you."

Spice's breath was aflutter as he spoke. "Sh-sh-she w-was a badger."

Wiomi shook her head. "Badger's ain't evil... least not that I know of anyhow."

"Of course they're not. But they are vicious! They'll lacerate you for the slightest offense, even something as slight as standing in their path!"

"La-lacerate?" Wiomi gasped. "Maybe where you come from, but badgers here in Mossflower are at least a bit chummier than that."

Spice huffed and shivered his shoulders.

Wiomi placed one finger below Spice's chin and turned his head toward her. "Listen. Long as you're in Mossflower, you don't have to be 'fraid of any badgers. You understand that matey?"

Spice nodded.

"Good. Now, since you really don't seem to know much 'bout the going-ons here, I think I should maybe give you a tour of the Abbey. What do you say, aye?"

The smile returned to Spice's face as he nodded to Wiomi. It made her giggle again, this time in nervousness. Wiomi helped Spice up with a paw beneath his shoulder. As she walked, he followed like an obedient pet, stopping when she stopped, and never stepping in front of her. She noticed the behavior, but knowing Spice probably couldn't explain it, she never asked about it.

"What was that about a feast?" Spice asked.

"Nameday!" Wiomi said. "Today's the last day of Spring. That means we've all got to gorge us-selves before we figure out what to call the passed season. I don't know why Audra insists on celebrating it on the last day of the season. I mean no other abbot's done that as far as I know. Either way, you had great timing in gettin' here."

Wiomi walked through the kitchen door into Cavern Hole. Spice followed.

"And that door didn't used to be there either," Wiomi continued. "It was just an archway when the Abbey first adopted me. Audra had it put in first thing when she became Abbess."

* * *

Morning passed into afternoon, and afternoon into early evening. A dozen beasts now occupied the great kitchen, cooking, chattering, carrying things to-and-fro, bumping elbows, and nearly spilling their payloads in the process.

The Nameday feast was taking shape. Steams and smokes billowed through the kitchen, dishing out intense heat and blanketing the kitchen in a kind of fog that permeated both itself and Cavern Hole with too many smells to count. The scents of honey, caramel, clove, and anise seeped into the stone and would remain for weeks, delighting those who would wander the kitchen in that time. The smells of wheat, oat, and barley bread couldn't saturate the sandstone, but wafted all the way to the Great Hall, prompting the young—along with the immature among the old—to begin a synchronous paw-pounding on the tables. Those waiting at the great hall were always upset that the pies, everything from strawberry, apple, and cherry, to rhubarb, mixed nut, and mince, couldn't carry that far. They were grateful however, that Pogo's famous catfish also couldn't, as it wouldn't smell appetizing until it was done. Other foodstuffs, vegetables and nuts and grains and greens and honey and ludicrous amounts of butter and shortening, all cooking in over a dozen dishes, were entirely masked by the smells of the more pungent dishes.

Beasts of every shape and size scurried and slipped and spun and sprang in all directions, trying desperately to avoid dropping whatever they held or crashing into one another. Clacking and clanging and crunching and clattering drowned out any attempts at civilized speech. All beasts in the kitchen had to scream in order to be heard, and even the screams would sometimes be drowned out by other screams.

Sakhaline the badgermaid pushed the kitchen door open with her back and ambled in, ducking beneath the archway, with an oaken barrel on each shoulder. One was filled with October Ale to add to bread doughs and soup stocks. The other was filled with dandelion fizz to be used as the base for any number of sweet, sour, spicy, and savory sauces. The hulking figure nearly slipped on the dirty, slick floor. She mentally cursed herself for not wrapping her footpaws in burlap bandages to keep herself afoot like the rest of the cooks. She dropped the barrels with a _thunk_ by the shrew friar, who yelled at a beast tending to pots full of sauces atop the firepit.

"Dammit Fender, the pots are still too hot!" the shrew friar screamed. "You can't rough up sauces like you can vegetables! The pots need to go over embers, not live flames, embers!"

"Sorry Pogo!" The beast at the firepit screamed back.

"I brought the barrels you asked for!" Sakhaline shouted.

Pogo, the shrew friar glanced at the barrels and nodded. "That's fine! That's the last of the stuff I need! Your job's over now!"

Sakhaline nodded and turned to leave the kitchen, once again nearly slipping on the floor.

Pogo looked back toward the firepit to see his assistant using an iron fork to spread his coals into a thin sheet to cool while his pots rested on the rim. Fender by most accounts looked like a hare, but was somewhat shorter, more slender, with shorter ears, and finer fur of the purest white. He was a rabbit, a beast rarely seen outside the eastern continent.

Pogo leaped the distance to Fender, swiped a finger through the sauce in one of his pots, and licked it off. "Mix a jigger of hazelnut butter in each of those pots; it'll get rid of that burnt taste!"

"Sorry Pogo!" Fender yelled back.

Fender didn't look at Pogo or for the hazelnut butter. He was only partly aware that he'd even answered his mentor at all, and even less aware of what he'd been asked.

Pogo sneered and shoved Fender back, finally grabbing his attention.

"I can't have flustered cooks in my kitchen!" Pogo hollered. "Get out of here! You're no use to me in this condition!"

Fender sighed and and slowly walked out of the kitchen with Pogo shooing him out the entire way.

"Get! Move your feet, rabbit! I thought your kind were supposed to be champion sprinters or something! Finally out'a there. Kurley, take over the sauces!"

A red squirrelmaid jogged to the firepit, ducking beneath a wicker bowl of crabapples and spinning around a mole carrying a pan full of shortening for pie crust. At the firepit, Kurley immediately reached toward the shelves for the hazelnut butter.

* * *

Fender the rabbit shoved the kitchen door closed with his back and sidestepped to the wall where he fell onto his haunches. He sucked in the air of Cavern Hole, much easier on the lungs and the eyes than the kitchen's. Fender wiped his ears back, only then realizing that the kitchen air was so heavy with slick that even the fur on his ears was oily. He looked up at a slit window and squinted at the beam of light that caught his face.

The rabbit looked toward the end of Cavern hole at the abbey's new arrival, the mysterious amnesiac mustelid dubbed Spice by the ottermaid Wiomi. His head was still bandaged, and presumably his knee as well since he still limped. Beasts passed along whispers of the luxurious perfume that seeped out of Spice's fur. Almost as famous was his seemingly instinctive gift for flattery and flirtation. More than one beastmaid fell for him very soon after meeting him, while several others found him plain offensive. More seldom spoken of, but still heard by Fender, was the mustelid's incredible meekness.

_He must have been a slave or prisoner at some point_, Fender thought. _Why else would he be so submissive? If he escaped from his captor, it would explain his sword-wounds._

As Spice passed, Fender saw that Wiomi had both her arms wrapped around one of his. She tried to appear to help the beast walk, but Fender could tell that she in fact clung to him possessively.

"Wait a sec," Wiomi said. "We're back where we started! We just went in a circle!"

Spice cocked his head at Wiomi. "Is there any place in Redwall we haven't been to yet?"

Wiomi stopped for a moment to think. "No, that's 'bout it. 'cept for the mole-tunnels that is."

"You mentioned those before. What are they?"

Wiomi smiled and nodded. "That was a long time ago. You see the moles kept diggin' their tunnels not only under the abbey but through it—used their claws to pry blocks right out'a the walls. It all got so bad it could'a brought Redwall crashin' down to a heap. So the Abbot back then says to the moles, pick out the tunnels you really need, and fill in all the rest. The tunnels that weren't filled got lined with cobblestone. Since then, there weren't quite as many moles 'round here as there once was. And eventually those old tunnels all got forgotten until me and a friend found 'em again."

"That was quite a long story," Spice said.

Wiomi snickered. "Well you did ask me to tell it, matey."

"That's okay," Spice said smiling. "You've just got such a quaint, whimsical voice. I can't help but love listening to you."

Wiomi snickered again in amusement. "Where do you come up with this stuff?"

"I don't know. It just comes to me."

Wiomi wrapped her arms tighter around Spice's arm and led him out of Cavern Hole. She didn't even notice Fender. The rabbit scowled and looked down. It didn't seem to matter that Spice flattered all the other maiden's he saw as well as her. If anything, it made Wiomi cling to him tighter, as if she could parade him around as a trophy and say, _nyaa nyaa! Look what I've got and you don't!_

"Feeling jealous of our new guest?"

Fender recoiled in surprise before looking to his side and seeing Sakhaline's mammoth frame standing next to him with her arms crossed. She looked down at him with a smirk. Fender stood up to avoid being so intimidated by the badger's figure, but still didn't even reach her shoulder.

"How could a badger sneak up on a rabbit?" Fender asked.

Sakhaline laughed out loud. "It's easy when the rabbit is so confounded as this one. Now about that jealousy I detect, hmm?"

"She's too used to getting her own way," Fender grumbled. "There's really not much she's good at anyway besides getting along with other beasts—and being reckless. That's why she's a chambermaid and not anything important like a nurse or a cook."

"I think you're trying to delude yourself," Sakhaline responded. "Trying to soften the blow of her newfangled interest, that is."

Fender flailed his arms about in anger as he spoke. "We were both raised as orphans here! We were together our whole lives! We spent our childhoods exploring those mole-tunnels! We were so happy doing that, we didn't care what kind of trouble we got into. We were practically brother and sister."

"If you say so. But I doubt your feelings toward Wiomi are those of a sibling's."

Fender's ears swept back and his brow furrowed. He spun around and flung a finger into Sakhaline's face. "Don't you tell me what I feel!"

Sakhaline was clearly amused. "Snarling and paw-waving in the face of a full grown badger? I must have struck a nerve. But don't concern yourself with Wiomi. You know how she can't resist a mystery. This Spice is just an exciting novelty to her. In time, she'll remember who makes her feel truly at home, and she'll come right back to you. When she does, I suggest you tell her your real feelings."

Sakhaline uncrossed her arms and left Cavern Hole. Fender's muzzle hung open and he still held a paw where her face had been. He huffed and sat back down in the beam of light. Sakhaline was a late youth, like Fender and Wiomi, yet she could see through others in ways only a beast who'd seen many more seasons could. But badgers matured more slowly than other beasts, so she in fact had seen many more seasons than other late youths.

* * *

"Reeedwaaall!" came the battle-cry of a tiny Dibbun sea otter who charged across a table in a bright red cape cut out of the cellarhog's best habit. He wielded an outlandishly huge oat-bread baguette over his head.

A Dibbun hedgehog in a green tunic stood, legs wide apart and knees sharply bent, poised to receive his attack. He wore a walnut bowl helm, pot lid shield, and twirled an onion-on-a-rope. "Come'n get me ye bilge-sucking seadog!" he shrieked in his best, though still horrid, corsair accent. "No beast can defeat Billy the Barbed!"

The sea-otter swung the baguette down onto the hedgehog, who blocked it with his pot lid before hitting the otter upside the jaw with his onion. The otter fell onto his back and shook his head to regain his vision. Billy the Barbed flung his onion-on-a-rope down toward the helpless whelp. The otter held his baguette aloft, making the rope spin around it. Billy leaped on top of him and they both struggled with their weapons.

"All the Strawberry Cordial in Redwall will be mine!" the hedgehog hollered.

"Never!" the otter shouted back.

Billy the Barbed yanked the baguette free of his foe's grasp and staggered back. He dangled his onion by the end of its rope, unwrapping it from the baguette which fell onto the table just as the otter slid on his belly to grab it and stand back up. The otter swung his weapon wildly through the air at the hedgehog, who hopped back to avoid the swipes. Both frequently knocked cups and bowls off the table as they fought.

Chuck the mouse sat at the table they fought on, and brought his paws up to trumpet his muzzle. "Get him in the belly! It's his only weak spot!"

The otter and hedgehog purposefully fought on a table full of elders well known for their sordid after-hours behavior, gambling in particular. The devious elders clapped and whistled and whooped as the otter kicked a pewter stein of October Ale up into Billy's face and shoulder-rammed his chest, knocking him to his knees. As the otter raised his baguette to strike Billy down, the hedgehog jumped up and swung his onion-on-a-rope upward and struck it in the center, breaking it in two.

"The sword of Martin is broken!" the hedgehog squealed. "Billy the Barbed wins!"

"Use the mace of, uhh, mashing!" shouted an elder squirrel who tossed a white club gourd from a bowel of decorative fruit to the otter.

The otter caught the gourd just in time to duck a sideways swing of the onion, which knocked over the bowl of decorative gourds. As the otter reared back his gourd, Billy turned and ran. He swiped a tankard of strawberry cordial from an elder vole's paws and jumped off the table toward the back staircase of the Great Hall.

"Redwall's cordial is mine!" Billy hollered.

"Reeedwaaall!" the otter screamed and chased after.

The otter leaped off the table after his hedgehog nemesis and raised his club gourd above his head. The hedgehog looked back at the otter, not looking where he was running, and collided with a beast, hitting its muzzle with onion and spilling cordial all over its habit. The otter's eyes widened. He couldn't stop himself in time to avoid plowing into the Billy's quills. He jumped over the hedgehog, also colliding with the other beast. He crushed the club gourd between his body and the other beast's. Its sticky seeds to clung to their habits.

The otter and and hedgehog shook their heads and looked forward before they both gasped and staggered back on all fours. Their muzzles quivered and their eyes watered in fear, just realizing that the habit they had so climactically soiled was pitch black. They looked up. Abbess Audra looked back down at them in annoyance.

The mouse's eyes followed the trail of clutter to a grayed trestle table where almost all the wears were toppled over or onto the floor, and six lecherous, shameless, gambling, boozing, and in general trouble-making elder beasts averted their gaze from her.

"Did you encourage this behavior?" Abbess Audra asked.

The elder beasts all shook their heads.

Abbess Audra grinned and crossed her arms, clearly not believing them. She looked down at the Dibbuns in front of her. "If you want dessert, I suggest you clean up this mess."

Abbess Audra walked passed the otter and hedgehog, who both slumped, put their paws on their hips, and grumbled in anger at having to clean up after their fun.

The abbess walked to the center of the room and raised her paws. All beasts silenced and looked to her as she spoke.

Abbess Audra cleared her throat and adjusted her glasses. "I apologize for my appearance, and for my need to depart after the opening speech of the Nameday feast, but I need to change into a new habit. I'm sure you're all very impatient by now, so onto the speech. The Fleeting Winter was so named because it was so brief, and led to such a warm and bright spring. Said spring in turn led to early ripening and harvest of the crabapples. And so I shall name this, the Spring of Crabapples. Aside from that, I know you are all very interested in Redwall's newest guest. We do not know his race, though rumors aside, we do not believe him to be a half-breed. It is true that his extraordinary shock and blood loss has rendered the mustelid amnesiac, but as far as Brother Bartley has been able to deduce, he is not a threat, _though certainly an annoyance_." Audra whispered the last part to herself. "I have always implicitly trusted Brother Bartley's judgment. We must therefore extend our hospitality beyond medicine, and welcome this beast to Redwall with asylum and friendship."

At that moment the great arched double doors to the lawns opened and Wiomi walked into the Great Hall, still clinging to Spice. All beasts looked back and fourth between Wiomi and Spice, each other, and Abbess Audra. They chatted idly, but hushed when Audra spoke again.

"Speaking of which, it would seem that one or both of you has impeccable timing," Abbess Audra said politely. "The morning of Nameday, this morning, has already heard its songs and seen its processions. So with that, let the feast begin!"

Abbess Audra turned and walked down the staircase to cavern hole while a dozen beasts led by Friar Pogo marched up it, passing her by. Pogo had to have extraordinary strength for a shrew, as he carried on his back a reed basket twice his size, overflowing with a dozen different kinds of steaming bread. Sakhaline came next. She hauled two massive barrels of October Ale over her shoulders, and a smaller barrel of whiskey on her back, which the shameless elders practically drooled over. Then came Kurley the squirrelmaid and three mouse assistants all carrying oaken dowels over their shoulders. Terracotta jugs full of sauces in red, brown, black, purple, and white hung from the dowels. They filled the Great Hall with the scents of boiled beers and wines and fruits and spices. Next came Fender the Rabbit, still useful for hauling who, along with a helpful mole, carried a giant oval platter covered with the glossy, honey coated crust of mince pie. This one had a plum, crabapple, and hazelnut mince. It's great smell was only augmented by Pogo's insistence on adding to the mince a heaping scoop of caraway seed. A trio of voles carried a great clay bowl of rough chopped potato, turnip, carrot, parsnip, onion, and beet all roasted in grape seed oil and obscene amounts of rosemary and minced garlic. The last four beasts, two mice and two voles, carried the only dish—besides the mince pie—that garnered the applause of the great hall, the main course: giant catfish stuffed with sage, fennel, and caramelized onion, and baked in a crust of mustard rye bread.

The foods were placed on the round table at the center of the great hall. Trestle tables surrounded it in a grid. The usual cross table of Nameday was abandoned this spring due to the sheer number of beasts anxious to eat, though none seemed to mind the break in tradition.

The cooks went back down stairs to retrieve more food. They would make four trips before bringing it all up. Nobeast stood on ceremony though. Plates and bowls and tankards and goblets were filled, emptied, and filled again.

Wiomi had a pewter plate full of catfish surrounded by roasted vegetables. She brought the plate to the end of a trestle table in a dark corner of the Great Hall, overshadowed by the Tapestry of Martin the Warrior, beneath which rested the sword-in-scabbard of its namesake encased in a glass box.

She sat down and scrunched her shoulder against Spice, who stared with wide, dilated eyes and muzzle agape at the feast, with now even more being brought up from the kitchen.

"That's amazing," Spice whispered. "I've never seen anything like it."

Wiomi smirked. "Even if you did, you wouldn't know it."

Spice raised his brow and bobbed his head side to side. Wiomi retrieved a bronze hip flask from her tunic, unscrewed its cap, and poured hotroot sauce all over her plate. Spice's plate was filled with mince pie smothered in a black sauce made from dandelion fizz and anise seed. While Wiomi slowly ate bite by bite, Spice shoveled pieces of mince pie into his muzzle and swallowed almost without chewing, and chugged from his stein of ale whenever he clogged his throat.

"Hey, don't fill up on just one dish," Wiomi said. "They only brought up half the food. Are you listening to me?"

Spice looked every which way except toward Wiomi. His attention was so dispersed he couldn't even look at his food when he ate, and spilled crumbs all over as a result. Wiomi sighed in frustration.

Something finally drew Spice's undivided attention. Kurley the squirrel no longer brought food from the kitchen. She'd changed into a bright green tunic and a baby blue pointy hat, and balanced on one footpaw atop a hide ball. Her three daughters dressed in gold, green, and red respectively, and tumbled in circles around her. Dibbuns laughed as they circled around and tried to knock any of the four squirrelmaids off balance by throwing crumpled paper, cloth, or nuts at them.

Spice perked his head up and grinned from ear to ear. He immediately went to guzzling what remained of his ale before leaping on to the table and vaulting towards the entertainers. Wiomi reached toward Spice as he did so, as if trying to stop him. But in reality she was just confused.

In spite of his still wounded knee, Spice seemed to prance. He jumped over the tumbling squirrel daughters and landed in front of Kurley.

"Let me on!" He shouted.

Kurley's daughters stopped tumbling to look quizzically at Spice. Kurley grinned, nodded, and hopped off her ball. She expected Spice to slip and fall, giving the Great Hall a good laugh. But she nearly gasped when he flipped forward and landed on the ball, perfectly balanced on his fingertips.

"Throw anything at me," Spice shouted. "I'll juggle it!"

The Dibbuns looked at each other, giggled, and scattered in all directions. Soon they came back and each threw an object at the strange mustelid. Spice soon juggled a bread roll, a bulb of garlic, and a pewter goblet full of strawberry cordial, all in his footpaws. And even when he spilled the cordial on himself, he simply laughed along with the rest of the hall.

Soon enough, Spice let all these things fall to the ground with clatters and thumps before somersaulting back to the floor. He ran and jumped onto a table seated with a quite inebriated group of mousemaids. He grasped a three branched iron candelabra by the stem and threw it into the air. The candelabra landed softly, still upright, on Spice's nose. Spice walked back and fourth across the table, balancing the candelabra on his nose, and stirring applause from all within the Great Hall.

As the drunkest of the mousemaids tried to take a bite of mince pie, Spice set the candelabra down and laid down on his side in front of her.

"No, no, no, no, no, no," Spice said. "Allow me."

Spice took the fork from the mouse and paw-fed her own pie to her as she giggled. He lifted her glass of ale to her lips for her to sip and then patted her muzzle with her napkin. He finally rubbed the napkin against his throat and dropped it into her lap.

"Something to remember me by," Spice said, and then stood up and bound off the table.

The mousemaid picked up the napkin and smelled the wonderful fragrance that poured from the mustelid's fur. The other mousemaids, not drunk enough to appreciate the absurdity, rolled their eyes in irritation.

Spice's energy was boundless. He ran and leaped and danced around the Great Hall, performing any wacky routine he could fathom, or making passes at any random beastmaid he would stumble into, delighting almost as many as he offended. Though he seemed elated even by his scorned advances, as they elicited laughter from his audience, especially when said scorn involved being pelted with food.

Wiomi bit her lower lip and stared at Spice's antics. She tried to understand what she saw. She was shocked at Spice's behavior, but felt she should have known he would do such things. Should she be angry at him? No. Spice didn't fool her. And given his condition, she doubted he could if he tried. She fooled herself for thinking he was something other than what he showed himself to be. She was the one who misjudged.

"What is going on here?"

Wiomi flinched in surprise. She looked to see Abbess Audra standing beside her in a clean new habit, and glaring at the spectacle speeding through the Great Hall. Audra's gaze had a tinge of disapproval, but showed mostly confusion.

Wiomi sighed and looked back to the scene. "He'd flirt with all the other lasses when he was with me. I honestly thought he was just helpin' me show off, but he was really just... just... just—"

"Licentious?" Abbess Audra finished Wiomi's thought.

Wiomi turned to the Audra with one brow raised. "I dunno' what that means, but I'll take your word for it."

The Abbess sat next to the otter and tried to put on as best a kind voice she could. Her words were glum, but she needed to say them. "You let your pride stand above your common sense. It is something you do far too often. I suggest you rethink your attraction to him."

Wiomi sighed. She propped an elbow on the table and let her head fall into her paw. "Believe me, I already have."

Fender sat cross-legged in the shadow behind a nearby column. He closed his eyes and let his head fall forward. The Great Hall was too noisy for him to have heard every word spoken between Wiomi and the Abbess, but he heard enough, and he sighed as a great tension eased out of his ears and shoulders.

* * *

Far beyond the word of Redwall Abbey's festivities, a black stained walnut pirate clipper sat dry docked on a beach at the western shore, with its port parallel to the ocean. It was dry docked in name only however; run aground better described its condition. Its lower deck was buried beneath the beach sand. The sand and high tide reached halfway to the ship's starboard, requiring logs fashioned from its sawed-down masts to buttress the port. _Poison Tongue_ was it's name, painted in gold across said port. Windows wrapped around the stern: the captain's cabin.

The inside of the cabin was adorned for a queen. A carpet of bright green velvet covered the floor, and all around were florally carved chairs and tables and vanities and mirrors and wardrobes of bronze and silver and cherry-wood and glass and velvet and ivory. A shelf stocked ornate glass vials of perfumes from everywhere in the known maps, while a cupboard stocked fine wines and liquors of a dozen varieties. And a bronze rack sported a hundred colors of all silk skirts and gowns and robes and coats. Lastly, a striped ebony canopy bed with magenta curtains and a bright green bedspread sat at the back of the cabin.

In spite of these luxuries, the blood red vixen in the black nightgown seemed listless, laying sprawled out on her bed. Yawning, she propped her head up on her pillows and scrunched her silk sheets up around her. There was one luxury she didn't have, one luxury she would trade all the others to acquire.

A single dormouse lad wearing only white trousers held a pair of silver tongs and a wooden bowl full of red olives, which he fed the vixen one by one. He was a sad figure with a black leather collar wrapped around his neck and a bronze chain tethering him to the bedpost. Even worse were the words 'Poison Tongue' branded on his shoulder—marking him as the vixen's slave.

The vixen chewed lazily, speaking to a guest between swallows while the beast stood silent, staring out a window with his arms crossed.

"Now stop me if I get anythin' wrong," she said. "But you're tellin' me that the slave you promised escaped from, supposedly, the greatest mercenary who ere lived? A slave of a race who, supposedly, doesn't even know how to fight back?"

The beast at the window turned to the vixen and uncrossed his arms. He stood like a statue, giving no trace of any emotion, or even cognizance. He looked more dead than alive.

The beast wore an iron scale hauberk beneath a segmented yellow-gray overcoat fashioned from the hide of some unknown beast. His face was covered in war wounds. A star shaped scar formed on his cheek from the blow of a mace while the diagonal claw of a wildcat ran across the top of his muzzle. And the top half of his left ear was cut clean off. Most striking was the slash streaking down his right eye, where his once green iris had turned strawberry red upon healing. Beneath his ensemble, he no doubt had many more scars.

The beast was twice the height of the vixen. In spite of his wiry frame, his muscles were vast. His arms, like tree-trunks, possessed strength rivaling a great old badger's—or at least a lucid badger's. A wolverine perhaps? No. The burnt brown fur with the golden throat gave it away. He was in fact a giant... a giant among pine martens.


	3. Chapter 3

**AUTHOR NOTES: **I was actually intending on saying this long before now, but until now forgot to. Hazard is, in my wildest dreams at least, only the first story in a trilogy featuring the character Wiomi (she'll only be the lead protagonist of the first). The complete trilogy—which I doubt I'll ever actually write—is: _Hazard_, _Fancy Rat_, and finally, _The War of Ghosts_.

**STORY NOTES:** FYI, in my mind, Liam Neeson voices Red Hazard.

* * *

For a time, no one spoke. It was high tide and the beasts within the captain's cabin of the _Poison Tongue_ could hear waves splashing against the hull. The relative silence distressed the dormouse slave on the canopy bed, as it usually meant he was to be punished. He fidgeted back and forth on his knees as he stared at the monstrous pine marten at the window. His mouth went dry from the marten's tired, unblinking gaze. He could see no malice, greed, or passion in that face. There was no good or bad; there was nothing at all. It was almost as if the beast's eyes were gouged out, and he stared into empty sockets.

The vixen grasped the bronze chain tethered to her slave's collar and yanked him toward her.

"Did I say you could stop feedin' me dormouse?" she asked.

The dormouse closed his eyes and bowed his head toward his mistress—he wasn't allowed to speak unless she told him he could. He took an olive in his tongs and held it to the vixen's muzzle, where she took it in her teeth, chewed slowly, and swallowed.

"I be waitin' for an answer," she said.

The marten put his paws in his overcoat pockets and turned back to the window. He spent still more time silent, rehearsing and revising his response in his mind over and over again. He wouldn't talk until he knew his words were perfect. When he did, his voice was low, impassive, and utterly calm.

"You said he would not try to escape. I acted under that premise," the marten said. "Your sources must have been misinformed as to the nature of his race."

"So you're sayin' you didn't even try to secure the lad?" the vixen asked.

"No. I'm not," the marten answered. "I bound him two-fold and placed him under armed guard. He did not resist, merely submitted to his fate, until..."

"'Til what?" the vixen asked.

The marten briefly glanced at the vixen. He considered the many things he told his captive, and settled on a single statement that most likely brought out the beast's defiance, which until that point didn't seem to exist. He couldn't let her know what that was.

"It is unimportant," the marten said. "Regardless, the beast proved more flexible than a ferret in spite of his broad build. He escaped his bounds in the night, and the guard attacked him as he fled."

The vixen sat up suddenly with eyes wide, teeth bared, and fur on end. She smacked the bowl of olives from the dormouse's paw and onto the carpet. In her fury she seized her slave's chain and pulled it back, flinging him onto the bed. He dropped his tongs and tried desperately to wriggle his fingers beneath his collar to keep from choking. It did no good. He gagged and wept as she strangled him.

"Attacked him?" the vixen screamed in outrage. "He'd damn well better be alive, Red Hazard! On account of I be nay lendin' you me last workin' clipper again! Not when it means sailin' a thousand leagues past uncharted waters, riskin' who in all hell knows what, just to find another suitable young lad of his kind!"

The pine marten Red Hazard kept still and impassive through the vixen's rage and her slave's strangulation. He was neither impressed nor surprised by such displays, nor by virtually anything else. He again reviewed his words in his mind several times before speaking.

"If he is dead, then I will compensate you for the use of your ship," Red Hazard replied. "But if he lived long enough to find aid, it would surely point him toward Redwall Abbey."

"And what of the guard who attacked the lad?" the vixen asked.

"I hung him."

"Well, I doubt such a common method of execution be effective at makin' an example of—"

"From his own intestines," Red Hazard interrupted.

The vixen shook her head in surprise. Not even she ever used such a grotesque form of punishment. She let go of her slave's chain to lace her paws together beneath her chin. By that time, the dormouse's tongue hung out the side of his muzzle and his eyelids began to swell. He clasped his paws to his chest and gasped for air as he was finally released.

"Well... far be it from me to tell you how to discipline your horde," the vixen mumbled.

"I prefer to think of them as my employees," Red Hazard whispered back.

"Whichever. I just want to know why you didn't try trackin' the beast after he escaped."

Red Hazard took a slow breath in mild irritation. She should already know why he didn't track the beast. It was the only emotion he showed thus far, and even then it was nearly imperceptible.

"The deluge made tracking him impossible."

The vixen bit her tongue to avoid cursing at Red Hazard. She clenched her paws and growled under her breath. Furious as she was at him, she couldn't win this argument. Nobeast could successfully track another in last night's storm. Though she'd never admit it, she was even the slightest bit impressed with him for surmising her slave-to-be was at Redwall Abbey, especially since she knew next to nothing about the fortress, and assumed he did as well. She couldn't let him know this however. And she couldn't let this tension keep building within her.

"Rub me footpaws dormouse!" the vixen ordered.

The doormouse, still gasping for breath, rolled onto his belly, pushed himself up, and crawled to the foot of the bed. He sat up cross-legged, took his mistress's footpaws in his lap, and began to knead the pads below her toes. Even then he tried to catch his breath. He didn't wait until he had before obeying his mistress because doing so would likely have meant being choked further.

The vixen wriggled her toes and dug her shoulders deeper into her pillows in response. She grumbled something under her breath before looking back up at Red Hazard. She looked into his eyes for only a second before looking away. Even she disliked his vacant stare. If rumors about this pine marten were true, perhaps she could coax some kind of expression from him. If nothing else, she could reestablish power over him after losing the previous argument.

She composed herself with a deep breath before launching into her barrage of exposition. "Have you ever heard of a tropical haven called Green Isle?"

Red Hazard turned back to the window. "Is there anything noteworthy about it?"

The vixen chuckled. "No, there's nothin' there but an otter colony. But aft when I was known as Commodore Krythe, I raided the isle and captured, among other things, an account of a wrecked sailin' cutter, blown far off course in a storm. Its sailors were the same fawnin', grovelin' cowards from a certain old Mossflower myth that I know you're also thinkin' of. I was so thankful the otters been able to chart their course."

"Why do you bore me with such stories?" Red Hazard asked.

The vixen Krythe huffed and sat up, pulling her footpaws from the dormouse slave. "I just thought you might like to be havin' them records. In case he`s still alive, they may help you get him back."

Red Hazard narrowed his eyes in thought. _F__awning, groveling, cowards_—that's what he believed as well until his captive proved to be something more under the right conditions. That meant everything else in the account was suspect.

"No thank you," Red Hazard whispered.

"Suit yourself," Krythe responded. "I also captured another account of a war with sea-rats from a neighborin' isle called Sempetra."

That was the statement Krythe hoped would trigger some response in the marten. But there was nothing, not a twitch of a whisker or flick of an ear. If she didn't know any better, she'd almost think he wasn't even breathing. She sneered in disappointment. Maybe if she kept going...

"The rats supposedly captured a fishin' fleet that landed there for shoreleave—left the fisherbeasts there to die from the fever they left behind, which also killed whatever was there before the rats. The fisherbeasts didn't even know the isle was inhabited."

"Again, why do you bore me?" Red Hazard asked.

"On the off chance that rumors about you be true," Krythe answered.

Red Hazard knew what rumors she referred to, and they were true. Despite his feigned disinterest and trance-like stillness, he listened intently to her story. It didn't matter though. The story was equally irrelevant. All that mattered was his pay, and that was a problem.

"If the beast is at Redwall, then I cannot retrieve him," Red Hazard said.

Krythe pulled her slave's chain, choking him again. "Why not?" she screamed.

"Redwall is not the invincible fighting brigade it is rumored to be, but they have numerous allies from across Mossflower at their beck and call. To attack Redwall is to attack every woodlander force within a week's trek of the abbey. Nobeast has ever survived a direct, military assault against it."

"Then find some other way to get the lad back!" Krythe hollered. "Or else you get no bounty."

"A tarnished reputation is far worse for a mercenary than a lost bounty, Lady Krythe. You will receive your slave in good time. You have my word on that."

* * *

The bottom of the sun touched the west horizon, and the barracks weren't too far away. Red Hazard paid no mind to either of these facts. Deep in thought, he looked at the ground by his feet. He needn't observe where he went anyway. The barracks were always by the riverbank. For the time being, he walked with his paws in his coat pockets and considered his situation.

Red Hazard had to keep his word, lest rumors of his failure reach other potential customers._ If the beast is dead, then what would I have to compensate Krythe with? Considering her surroundings, she would certainly accept the choice picks of my luxuries. But what if she demands more? Should I give it? Perhaps I could cover my tracks: kill her, the dormouse, and burn the ship. It would succeed if she had no regular visitors to discover the ruins left behind, but I can't be sure of that. How much gold could I spare? If he lives, he is certainly at Redwall. How then would I retrieve him without incurring the wrath of all Mossflower? Torell would know! Torell does little more than read and study._

Red Hazard put his paws in his coat pockets and continued walking, though only seeing his footpaws could one tell he was walking at all. He did not bob as he walked. Instead, he seemed to glide across the ground as he made his way up a slight hill.

* * *

Over the hill, sprawled out in a circular grid, were well over a hundred square, two-story huts of wooden struts with lacquered canvas walls. It appeared at first glance to be quite a sizable town, but closer inspection revealed that it wasn't. The struts had no nails, and fit together through groves carved in them. The canvas was held to them with temporary clamps, and only rope-ladders led to the second stories of the buildings. With the great many wagons at its center, the settlement could be disassembled and moved at a moments notice. Its militant nature was obvious.

Many a kind of vermin went to and fro, all with some business to tend to. Foxes and ferrets and feral cats jogged in formation around the perimeter of the encampment while wearing heavy coats of iron scales and duffel bags full of dirty linens over their backs. They coughed and wheezed and trudged and could barely keep their eyes open as they ran. Stoats pulled carts full of many things from one place to another. One hauled a cart of giant strops, silk rags, and jugs of hemp oil to a smithy where an old one-eyed feral cat honed the edge of a giant sword on a long porcelain tile.

Within the camp, two lines faced one another down, with veteran mercenaries on one side sparring with new recruits on the other. They too had to carry the heavy iron scale coats, and fought with small heater shields and odd looking swords: heavy handled falchions curved not backward, but forward, giving them the force of splitting mauls. They were evolutions of the ancient falcata, envisioned by Red Hazard himself.

The veterans screamed at the recruits as they trained them.

"Keep yer knees bent ya dolt!"

"Keep yer back straight ya moron!"

"Ya wanna' break! Will your enemy care if you're a cryin' lily-liver when 'e's guttin' ya on the battlefield!"

"I said shuffle your feet you milksop! Shuffle, not bounce!"

"What the hell's the matter with you? Yer nickers hurt? Well too bad!"

The recruits gasped in exhaustion and winced in pain as they sparred. Their weapons were blunt with triple-thick, leather bound blades. They were never meant to carry into battle, but to build strength. One by one, the recruits collapsed from exhaustion and were dragged away by others toward their quarters.

The discipline seen in the barracks was unlike any other nomadic vermin horde, on a level some might think impossible. How it was managed—aside from the unmatched promise of wealth—was about to be seen.

A sharp eyed weasel atop the western log-built watchtower saw a figure approaching the barracks. He shaded his eyes with his paws, leaned forward, and squinted. He could see just enough in the setting sun's glare to recognize the familiar armored overcoat. He reached down to his side to pick up a copper oboe and play a brief tune. The high pitched sound reached to the edge of the barracks, but no farther. Even the recruits recognized that particular tune. The chief was back!

* * *

The sun had set by the time Red Hazard reached the edge of the barracks, but the sky was still red. All beasts made themselves busy if they weren't already, but few would approach their chief unless there was a need to do so. As he walked on the beaten grass between the huts, vermin on all sides averted their gazes from him, held their breaths, or quickly retreated into their huts. The marten gave no care to their reaction to him so long as they followed orders and didn't overstep their bounds. That's why there were no true wildcats in the horde; they demand too much power for themselves, and Red Hazard would not tolerate that.

The old one-eyed feral cat and his stoat assistant approached Red Hazard. The gray tabby, still in his rawhide apron and gloves, held out the giant sword to his chief with his head bowed.

"Your sword chief?" the cat said. "Honed, polished, and stropped just as you asked."

Without speaking or looking at the cat, Red Hazard took the sword in his paws and unsheathed it half-way to inspect. It was a zweihander, a two-handed great sword with hooks partway up the blade to catch the shafts of pole-arms. It was almost as tall as he was. The cat did an excellent job treating the blade, as always. The marten sheathed the sword and took it in one paw while his other rummaged through a pocket for its last scrap of silver to drop into the cat's paw.

Shifting the sword from one paw to the other, he wriggled out of his coat and dropped it into the stoat's arms.

"Have it cleaned and oiled by morning," Red Hazard muttered.

The stoat _hrrumph_ed and fell over from the coat's weight. He barely managed to stand, and staggered while hauling the giant mass away on his back. He didn't complain or object, merely heaved and dragged himself away under the coat that had to weigh as much as he did. He knew better than to do otherwise.

Red Hazard walked through the barracks toward his tent, never once looking at any beast he passed by. Few looked at him as well. He sported a disturbing figure in only his scale shirt and trousers, with the brawn of a badger draped over the wiry and pliable frame of a pine marten. Even his arms were covered in old war wounds. He slung the sword over his back.

All present feared Red Hazard, but none more so than two ferrets, a blaze male and a sable mitt female, who waited for him just outside his tent. They wore little armor compared to the other soldiers, just sleeveless chain hauberks and coifs, and their only weapons were short rapiers—clearly stolen from some shrew union. The female looked into her mate's eyes in despair. He looked back in panic.

"Are ya tot'lly sure 'bout this?" the male asked.

The female blinked, nodded, and stared at the ground. "Aye! Sure as a slug 'ates salt it's true."

The male squeezed his eyes shut and grit his teeth. He wept a single tear from both eyes before calming. "What'll the chief do when 'e finds out?"

The female chuckled under her breath. "'E won't care! 'E'll do what 'e's always done, right, send us arses into battle. "

The male dropped his head into his paws and sobbed for only a second before stopping. He looked back up at his mate.

"Can we escape?" he asked.

"Not 'nless it's by arse daft luck."

"Than should we... ya know... not for us but for... "

The female bit her bottom lip and shook her head. "Hell, I dunno! But if it did come down that that I wouldn't 'esitate, and I'd expect ya wouldn't either."

The male didn't want to talk about _that_. The news gave him restless sleep last night, as it did to her. He couldn't think about it in his condition. He possibly didn't want to think about it at all. In either case, he had to find something else, and quick.

"What 'bout Kracker?" he asked.

"What 'bout 'im?" she asked back. "Ya know 'e's too timid to answer the chief, and ya know what'll 'appen ta us if we butt in. There's only one thing we can do for 'im, and that's kill 'im quick once 'e's outta sight."

"Crunchy! Munchy!"

The two ferrets yelped in shock and leaped up to stand in fear of their chief's scolding voice, which oddly was still nearly a whisper. Those weren't their real names, of course, but the names Red Hazard demanded they call themselves even in private. He didn't want to know their real names.

"What are you two doing here?" the marten asked.

By all indications of voice, stance, and cocked head, Red Hazard was merely curious. But the ferrets knew better than to think his expression could ever show his mood or motive. They looked down in submission and kept a daunting effort not wriggle in angst as the chief confronted them. They had to answer quick and concise.

"We seen one of the recruits gone into yer tent," the female said. "We followed 'im and caught 'im pilferin' your chest of silk bolts. Ain't that right Crunchy?"

The male, Crunchy, closed his eyes and nodded his head with such force it made him dizzy. He said nothing.

"Who and where is he?" Red Hazard whispered.

"'Is names Kracker, and 'e's bound up in yer tent," the female, Munchy, said.

Red Hazard glanced toward Crunchy. "Bring him to me." He glanced toward Munchy. "Fetch me a flint and oil flask."

The ferrets both grit their teeth and clenched their paws. Their whiskers tingled, their guts chilled, and their tail-tips burned. They knew what was coming, not only for Kracker but themselves. Still, they obeyed without question. With an exterior of serene calm, they parted, Crunchy into the tent, and Munchy into the barracks. Many recruits gathered around their chief in morbid curiosity, all keeping a fair distance from the tent. It was all the better for Red Hazard that they would see what happens to dissenters.

A minute passed. Crunchy backed out of the chief's tent, dragging an adolescent stoat in a red tunic and trousers by his bound wrists. The stoat kicked and squirmed and cried through his rope gag as he was dragged in front of his chief, who bent over and pulled him up to his footpaws by his wrist binds.

"Cut him loose," Red Hazard said.

Crunchy hesitated for a moment. His gut chilled again. _Ignore it! Will it to go away! There ain't nothin' ya can do_. He sighed, wriggled his fingertips, and drew his short rapier. The ferret made two swipes and the stoat's cut binds and gag fell to the ground with thumps. Crunchy sheathed his sword.

Trying to look as professional as possible, the stoat straightened his posture, ran fingers through the fur on his head and throat, and clasped his paws behind his back. He looked at his chief, desperate to put on his best mournful, upturned eyes, and timid pursed muzzle. The facade turned into blinking and tongue chewing as he saw his chief's gaze. It was better to look away.

"They call you Kracker?" Red Hazard whispered.

The stoat nodded.

"They say you had my silk. Explain yourself."

_Come up with something_, Kracker thought. _Not too innocent, something believable._

"All that silk in an unlocked chest," Kracker said, deliberately adding a giggle . "I had to just see it, you know… maybe wrap a bit around my shoulders, you know, just for pretend's sake, you know. Um… Err… I wasn't, you know, going to steal any of it, you know."

Kracker scowled in anger for nervously echoing his tag-line. His head suddenly flung upward by the snout, accompanied by searing pain as if the skin of his jowls was being torn off. Before he saw anything, a giant black paw had wrapped around his whiskers and pulled him up to his toes. The stoat shrieked and sobbed with metallic shrillness and wrapped both his paws around the one grasping his whiskers. It was no good; the paw was fastened like a clamp. Kracker's eyes turned beet red and poured tears. His tongue rolled out of the side of his muzzle.

"You lie," Red Hazard whispered. "You were going to abandon me and sell the silk."

"Yes!" Kracker wheezed.

The giant paw released Kracker's whiskers and he fell on his side in the dirt, coughing and rubbing his sore muzzle with both paws. "I'm sorry!" he groaned. "It'll never happen again!"

Red Hazard glanced up to see Munchy amble toward him with an averted gaze. She carried a dented tin flask in one paw and a dirty flint wedge in the other. She closed her eyes as she handed them to her chief, and then rushed to Crunchy's side in front of the gathering of recruits. The recruits stared with morbid curiosity, but the ferrets turned away. They knew better than to look.

Red Hazard held the flask and flint in one paw and clamped the other around Kracker's throat. He pulled the stoat toward him and forced his head up to stare into his chief's eyes. Kracker saw the flask and flint. He was already shivering, and the pine marten's empty eyes only made it worse. Red Hazard bent over until he touched noses with Kracker. He loosened his grip on the stoat's throat to let him speak. The crowd inched closer.

"Tell me what punishment you deserve for your infraction," Red Hazard whispered.

Kracker could only stammer. "I… I… you know… I… you know… I just… you know… I… I…"

"Very well," Red Hazard interrupted. "As you cannot decide on a suitable punishment, I will."

Red Hazard threw Kracker to the ground. He popped the cork from the flask with his thumb and poured the lamp oil all over Kracker before dropping it on top of him. The stoat yelped, wiped his face, and stared at his oil soaked paws, too shocked at that moment to register what was happening. The recruits' sneers of curiosity lengthened as they realized their chief's display wasn't just for intimidation. But two ferrets among them refused to look. Red Hazard reached back and struck the flint wedge against the breast of his scale shirt, sending sparks down to the stoat and setting him ablaze.

Kracker screamed with such force as to cause all present, save Red Hazard, to wince in pain. The flames spread and grew until the stoat's torso was engulfed and his tunic was burned off. He seized and rolled about trying to put out the fire, but it would do nothing for his oil-soaked fur. Some among the recruits looked away while others stared deeper.

Red Hazard seemed almost bored at his recruit thrashing about the dirt beneath him. After a minute, he walked into his tent only to return a few seconds later with a scrunched up, unbleached wool blanket under his arm. He dropped it onto the stoat, whose writhing twisted it around him, putting out the fire. Red Hazard knelt down and yanked on one end of the blanket to unwrap the stoat. Kracker flopped into the ground, still writhing and screaming. The recruits murmured as they saw him. The left side of his face, now eyeless, along with his throat and most of his chest were reduced to what looked like greasy red juniper bark.

Red Hazard grabbed Kracker by a burnt shoulder and lifted him to his footpaws. He backhanded the stoat in the back of the neck, knocking him unconscious into the dirt. Even then, Kracker whined and twitched in pain.

"Crunchy, Munchy," Red Hazard whispered.

The two ferrets sighed and ambled up to their chief, who wiped his greasy paw on Munchy's arm. She didn't react. She'd long ago taught herself not to.

"Take him to the ocean. Tie him to a trunk of driftwood just at the high tide mark. Leave him there to soak in the saltwater, and die slowly from putrefied burns."

"Yes sa'" the ferrets said with a nod. They knelt down, wrapped their paws around a shoulder, and dragged the unfortunate stoat away. All eyes that could stand to do so watched them until they were out of sight.

Red Hazard turned toward the gathered recruits, who took a collective step back. "Any of you who stole from me will be immediately forgiven if you return my valuables right now."

A handful of recruits immediately stepped up to empty their pockets and pouches and wallets of gold pieces and rings, salt cubes, and bags of spices, at the pine marten's feet before making themselves scarce. Among them were a female orange tabby feral cat and a male hooded ferret.

The cat whispered to the ferret. "His mother must've been a real bitch."

No sooner did she hear the unsheathing than the tabby couldn't breathe nor feel anything below her chest. Her eyelids fluttered and her body chilled. She tried to speak, tried to look down, but all she could do was gurgle at the giant, bloodied sword skewering her diaphragm and spine. Her shock was enough to numb her pain and fear so she could look up and meet her chief's still impassive stare.

"My mother was a saint," Red Hazard whispered.

He threw the tabby from his zweihander. She was dead before she hit the ground. He wiped the blade on her tail and sheathed it before making his way across the barracks. The recruits no longer spoke as he passed. _Many will run,_ Red Hazard thought. _But it's best to be done with the examples early, and ensure the loyalty of those who complete their training. Those who run will become further examples._

Red Hazard headed toward a tent similar to his, and with many luxuries of its own. But while few beasts would approach their chief's tent on non-business affairs, none would approach this one unless death was the clear alternative, and even then many would refuse to enter. It was so odd then that Red Hazard seemed drawn to the tent like a magnet, and even relaxed as he approached it. As he drew closer, his shoulders slumped, his steps took on a gait, and even his dead face softened.

* * *

The darkness was nearly complete. Only the beam of light seeping through the closed door flap illuminated the inside of the tent. A figure in a black hooded mantle stood patiently in the center of the tent for an expected guest. The mantle obscured the figure's build and even gender, but not its silver eyes.

The figure shuffled its footpaws in anticipation. When it did, thousands of tiny whispers sounded from nowhere. A moment later they became thousands of tiny clicks. A moment later there was silence again. The figure perhaps enjoyed this macabre sound, and shuffled its footpaws again. Again, whispers, clicks, then silence. The figure narrowed its eyes in eagerness.

The door flap pushed up and the figure squinted from the light that came into the tent. For the briefest moment its mantle could be seen as not a mantle at all, but something that fluttered and twisted around the figure of its own will.

The flap fell shut and Red Hazard stood in the beam of light, now obscuring the entire figure save its eyes, whose pupils dilated at the sight of him. Red Hazard's own eyes softened, widened, and glazed at the sight of it. He stood easy, breathed easy, and cracked the warmest and most affectionate of smiles. He was another beast now, a beast filled with humility and compassion, a beast no living being save the occupant of this tent could recognize.

"Hello Torell," He said in a voice of sad fondness.

"Hello Ashest," the figure said back in female soprano voice. The sounds came again when she spoke: whispers, clicks, then silence.

"Has the new chef been willing to serve you?"

"He leaves my meals at the door flap. But he's timely enough to keep the meat warm and the wine fresh." _Whispers—clicks—silence_.

"Perhaps I should let him at my imports, see what he can make of them."

Torell smiled. Red Hazard sighed in contentment from seeing it.

"I would like that. But I sense you're here on business."

"That is correct," Red Hazard answered. "You remember my last bounty, the one who escaped?"

She remembered. Her eyes widened and pupils dilated. She licked her lips thinking about him. _Whispers—clicks—silence_. Red Hazard chuckled under his breath at her reaction to his mention.

"I know you wanted him for yourself, but imagine how many devoted slaves I can get you with the wealth I was promised?"

Torell smirked and looked away. _Whispers—clicks—silence_. "But could any of them tolerate my presence?"

"I'll personally see to it that they will," Red Hazared assured her.

"I'm sure you will," she replied_._ "But about that business..."

"Yes," Red Hazard replied. "It's about him. Given the extent of his wounds, there's only one place he could be if he is alive, and that's Redwall Abbey. I don't want to risk a direct assault as that would only drag me to war with its allies, and I have no beast truly capable of infiltrating the fortress."

"Then just walk up to the abbey and knock on the door."

Red Hazard cocked his head and lifted an eyebrow. "Come again?"

"The abbeybeasts have a strict code they must follow. Any beast that arrives unarmed at the abbey doorstep can ask for a night's lodging, medical attention, or an audience with the abbot. They can't refuse you so long as you don't present yourself as a threat. And while I doubt an audience would get you anywhere else, it would at least get you inside the abbey."

Red Hazard rested his muzzle on a paw for some seconds before looking back up at Torell and smiling. "Sometimes I don't know how I could manage without you."

The marten turned to leave, but stopped at the door flap. "You have command of the Barracks while I'm gone." He paused. "And I swear to you, I'll have you a worthy concubine by the end of Summer."

Red Hazard shoved the flap aside and exited the tent, giving another glimpse of the mantle that wriggled and coiled about its master with no impetus from her. Torell smiled and licked her lips again. _Whispers—clicks—silence_. She began a sluggish, deliberate walk toward the door flap, and the sound from the mantle became far worse. Rattling—rattling as if countless beads were pouring onto a polished stone floor came from her mantle. It wouldn't stop until Torell did. But she loved the sound, so walked as slow as she could.

* * *

Outside, a beast would only occasionally have to pass by Torell's tent. One unfortunate feral cat did so now as she pushed aside the door flap and entered the last waning minutes of light. He might not have noticed Torell if it weren't for the rattling from her mantle.

He turned to her seeing a beast with a pine marten's golden throat, but the stature, round ears, and charcoal fur of a dark weasel. She was a half-breed. But that was just an afterthought. The cat's gaze locked onto the mantle itself, which in the dusk's light was finally seen not to be a mantle at all, but a mass of wolf spiders! Hundreds of wolf spiders, possibly thousands, crawled along her bare fur, forming swirls and streams and torrents that wrapped and rewrapped around her body as a living garment.

The cat was struck silent. Though his heart nearly leaped from his chest, his body froze in position. He tried to move, but felt as if he pushed against stone on all sides. He could only twitch his whiskers and flick the tip of his tail as that thing and its godawful rattling stepped closer. As she stopped inches from him, the cat's lungs froze. This was far more than the professional fear Red Hazard instilled; it was mortal terror. And it came from far more than Torell's ghastly appearance. Stories about this beastmaid that would give most Dibbuns nightmares whispered from mercenary to mercenary. If even one were true, it would warrant the cat's reaction.

"Be so kind as to tell the others that I rule the Hazard Syndicate while my brother is away," she said.

The cat's body suddenly freed, and he bolted into the Barracks, away from Torell, as fast as his footpaws would carry him.


End file.
